


Five Times Tréville Saved Athos, and One Time Athos Returned the Favor

by ScoutLover



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Bonding, Brotherly Love, Canon Related, Canon-Typical Violence, Drunk Athos, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epic Friendship, Families of Choice, Friendship, Gen, Hurt Athos, Hurt/Comfort, It's all about the Athos Angst, Keeping the 'Functional' in Front of 'Alcoholic' Since 1625, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 14:46:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4267314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScoutLover/pseuds/ScoutLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Olivier d'Athos de la Fère thought he lost everything when his world was ripped apart. Captain Tréville of the King's Musketeers has other ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A New Life

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Пять раз, когда Тревиль спас Атоса, и один раз, когда Атос отплатил тем же](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7492953) by [aqwt101](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aqwt101/pseuds/aqwt101)



> I love the relationship between Athos and Tréville. The good Captain keeps a tight rein on his boys (or as tight a rein as anyone can on _those_ boys), but he and Athos seem to have a particularly close relationship, one as much of friendship as of commander-subordinate. I just wanted to explore that a bit.
> 
> Oh, and here be spoilers for the end of S2.

Tréville strode through the streets of Paris, two of his Musketeers – two of his _remaining_ Musketeers – at his back, one hand on his sword, his face creased in thought.

The King was growing impatient. His favorite regiment had been deeply wounded by the disaster at Savoy (and Tréville chose _not_ to think too deeply just then on his own and the King’s complicity in that disaster), and, like a child deprived for too long of a beloved toy, he was demanding that the lost men be replaced _immediately_. He couldn’t understand why Tréville was moving so slowly on this, why the depleted ranks hadn’t already been replenished. He wanted the familiar blue cloaks once again on parade at the palace, and he wanted them _now_.

Never mind the fact that there was more to a Musketeer – or should be – than a man who wore a cloak well …

And therein lay the reason for Tréville’s slowness in rebuilding the regiment. He’d built it once, filling the ranks with carefully selected men, determined to have only the finest soldiers wearing the pauldron. He had lost twenty of those men, twenty of the finest soldiers France had to offer, at Savoy.

He had already betrayed them once. He would not betray their memories now by replacing them with men not fit to follow them. He would rebuild the regiment as he saw fit, taking as much time as he considered necessary, choosing recruits carefully, making certain that the legacy of the past, of the lives lost, would be honored. He owed that much to the dead of Savoy, and to the sole survivor of that tragedy.

His Majesty would just have to wait a bit longer before his toy was restored to him–

“Monsieur! Monsieur!”

His thoughts were interrupted as a boy came racing toward him, calling to him. He stopped abruptly, his men halting just behind him, and waited for the boy to reach him, hand tightening about his sword hilt. Such greetings rarely boded well.

The boy reached him a few moments later, out of breath and wide-eyed. “You are a Musketeer, yes?” he panted, reaching out to grab Tréville’s arm.

“I am.”

“Two of your men, back there!” the boy cried, turning to point back the way he had come. “There is trouble! A fight! Please, monsieur, they need help! The Red Guards outnumber them badly!”

Tréville swore under his breath. For once, just for _once_ , could the bloody-minded children he commanded _not_ be stupid enough to battle the goddamned Red Guards in _broad daylight_?

“I think one is badly hurt, monsieur,” the boy added.

Tréville’s anger disappeared at that, replaced immediately by fear. “Show me!” he ordered tersely.

The boy turned and ran and Tréville raced after him, simply shoving past bodies that didn’t move out of his path quickly enough. He could hear his two men – Laurent and Giles – pelting after him and shouting at everyone else to make way, fierce urgency in their voices. He understood that urgency all too well. Any loss after Savoy would be especially painful.

They turned a corner, and Tréville stopped short at the scene before him. Two Red Guards were on the ground, one obviously dead, the other not far from it, while one of _his_ men – Benoît – also lay dead. The second Musketeer, Guillaume, was still on his feet, though injured and bleeding, desperately trying to defend himself against another Guard.

To his own surprise, though, it was neither Guillaume nor Benoît who held Tréville’s attention.

Another man was fighting the three remaining Red Guards, and doing so with a stunning skill. The blades of his sword and poignard flickered and danced like quicksilver in the afternoon sunlight as they easily parried and turned aside every thrust and slice. The man himself moved with an effortless grace, avoiding Benoît’s body behind him and Guillaume’s flagging form to his left as if they weren’t there. He suddenly spun to his right, launched a lightning attack upon the Red Guard approaching from that side, and dispatched the man with a wicked thrust to his chest. He was momentarily slowed by the need to pull his sword free, but, as another Red Guard rushed in to take advantage, that parrying dagger arced up and across his throat, ending his attack, and his life, in a spray of blood.

Laurent and Giles rushed in, Laurent going to Guillaume’s assistance, Giles diverting the remaining Red Guard facing the stranger. Guillaume crumpled to the ground, but the fighting was still too close about him for Tréville to go to his aid. A quick study of the fallen man through experienced eyes confirmed that his wound most likely wasn’t mortal, so Tréville swallowed his impatience and turned his attention instead on the unknown but brilliant swordsman.

He was young, in his mid- to late twenties, though something in his eyes hinted at an age that had nothing to do with years. His hair was dark, long and unkempt, it and his beard clearly untouched by a barber, and a comb, in some time. His clothing, while expensive and well-made, showed that same neglect, the lace at his shirt collar fraying, both that collar and his silk and velvet doublet stained. After years at court, Tréville knew wealth when he saw it, and he saw it plainly in the shabby yet still somehow elegant figure before him.

Intrigued, he made his way around the still-raging duel, careful to keep his distance from the flashing blades, to the man, needing to know who he was and why he’d taken on three of Cardinal Richelieu’s men. Everyone in Paris knew those red cloaks, knew who commanded the Red Guards, and none tangled with them if they could help it. Certainly, none killed them so carelessly.

The man himself didn’t seem to notice Tréville’s approach, was watching the fight too intently, a faint sneer of disdain pulling at his mouth. Tréville couldn’t help noticing the distinct scar that marked the upper lip of that mouth, even through the untrimmed mustache.

He also couldn’t help noticing that, now out of the fight, the man was decidedly unsteady on his feet, and now and then had to shift his stance as if to keep from falling. Tréville thought at first he might be wounded, but, as he drew near, he saw the telltale owlish blinking and caught the unmistakable whiff of wine. Sudden realization brought him up short.

Good God, the man was drunk! So sodden with wine he reeked of it and swayed in its grip, and yet he’d just fought the Cardinal’s men, _and killed two of them_ , in a masterful display of skill!

Tréville prayed to God and St. Michael that he’d just stumbled across some younger son of a noble house who might be interested in fighting for his King.

“I am Captain Jean-Armand du Peyrer de Tréville of His Majesty’s Musketeers,” he introduced himself in a gruff but polite voice, bowing slightly. “I wish to thank you for coming to my men’s assistance.”

“They certainly needed it,” the young man replied in a smooth, cultured and wine-slurred voice. He watched as the two remaining Red Guards were defeated, uttering a sound of disgust through his teeth, then turned to Tréville with an arched brow and fixed clouded but disapproving green eyes upon him. “Your men’s swordplay is appalling,” he said. “Sloppy and undisciplined. I would expect better from trained soldiers.” He paused a moment, seemed to consider, then frowned, all the while swaying on his feet. “They _are_ trained,” he asked pointedly, “aren’t they?”

Tréville clenched his teeth and knotted his hands into fists at his sides, anger at the insult to his men flaring hot within him. But years of experience at court, at dealing with arrogant sons of the nobility, helped him hold his temper. He’d have a difficult enough time dealing with Richelieu over this latest clash between their men. He didn’t need a fight with whoever this jumped-up drunken _prat’s_ father was, as well.

He began to recant the prayer he’d uttered earlier.

“Of course they are trained,” he ground out. “But as soldiers, their time is spent more in _using_ their swords than in studying the artistic placement of their wrists and feet.”

“Pity,” the younger man said coolly, turning his head to watch as Benoît’s body was carried away and placed on a cart. “More _artistic_ footwork and a firmer wrist could have saved his life.”

It was only with supreme effort that Tréville didn’t slam a fist into that scarred mouth. As it was, he clenched his hands tighter still and surged forward until he was close enough to feel the young man’s wine-soaked breath on his face. His sudden movement, and nearness, seemed to startle the young man, driving him back an unsteady step. Tréville reached out instinctively, grabbing a handful of his quilted doublet to keep him from falling.

“How dare you!” he growled into those suddenly wide and noticeably unfocused eyes. “That man was a _soldier_! He bore his sword in the service of France, and has fought for his King! He learned his skills on the battlefield, not in his father’s drawing room! You have no right–”

“We’ve _all_ fought for France!” the young man snarled, jerking out of Tréville’s grasp and somehow managing not to fall into a drunken heap on the ground. “And the skills I learned in my father’s _drawing room_ proved quite useful on the _battlefield_ as well! If you’re going to send men out armed with swords, whether into the streets of Paris or into battle, you should at least make certain they know how to wield them!”

Tréville blinked and took a step back. “You’ve fought?” he asked in surprise. “In battle?”

“In these times, who hasn’t?” the young man drawled, sounding utterly bored. “War is the eternal constant.”

Tréville blinked again, and began recanting the recanting of his prayer.

“Can you … train others?” he asked hesitantly, not at all certain what he was doing. But he’d trusted his instincts all his life, and they were prodding him to do this. He knew nothing about this young man except that he’d used his sword as one born to it. And such skill would go a long way toward keeping his men alive. “To use the sword?”

It was the young man’s turn to blink, and he did so. Several times. “I’m … sorry?” he asked at last, frowning in utter confusion.

Tréville exhaled deeply, forcing patience upon himself. “You have a remarkable skill with the sword,” he said slowly, clearly, as if speaking to a dull-witted child. Or to a drunkard. “You said my men need training with the sword. Can _you_ train _them_ in that skill?”

He blinked again, repeatedly, and slowly licked his lips, as if sorting through Tréville’s words to find their meaning. “I– Train them? Your men?”

Tréville held that gaze. “Why not? You have a skill they need. That the King whom they serve needs them to have.” He took a shot in the dark. “Consider it your duty to him. And to France.”

The shot landed. The young man stiffened slightly at the words, and something very like interest flickered faintly in those wine-dulled eyes. Tréville filed that reaction away for possible future use.

“I … suppose … I could try,” he answered softly, slowly, as if being drawn to the notion against his own will.

Tréville felt a sudden surge of victory. If the young man could teach half as well as he fought, the Musketeers would be a truly elite fighting force. And perhaps he’d no longer be forced to bury large numbers of them at once …

“Good!” he said briskly, his decision made. If nothing else, he might be saving some nobleman’s son from drinking himself into an early grave. “Be at the Musketeer garrison tomorrow morning,” he ordered. “And,” he added firmly, “ _be sober._ ”

A single raised brow was the only answer he got to that.

He nodded and started to turn away, but paused and turned back. “Oh, I suppose I should know whom I have just engaged as regimental sword master. What’s your name?”

Again, the young man seemed utterly confused, as if asked a question he’d never heard before. “My– I–” He frowned, but said nothing else.

Tréville groaned and bowed his head. Mother of God, just how drunk was the young idiot?

But the young idiot made a visible effort to collect himself, drawing himself up to his full height – swaying only slightly less noticeably – and lifting his chin. “Athos,” he answered quietly, almost as if he had only just decided. “I am … Athos.”

*****

Athos wasn’t _entirely_ sober when he presented himself to Tréville the next day – somewhat later than the Captain properly considered “morning” – but neither was he stumbling drunk. Tréville sighed resignedly and considered it a victory.

He _had_ , however, combed his hair and groomed his beard, changed his shirt and traded his stained velvets and satins for much more practical leather doublet and breeches. Somehow, Tréville thought, the dark, dusty garb suited him better.

Yet if his clothing still seemed somewhat worn, though more from frequent use rather than simple neglect, his blades, scabbard and sword belt were pristine. The young man – _Athos_ , Tréville reminded himself – clearly lavished far more care upon them than upon any other part of himself, and that won the soldier’s immediate respect.

He sat back in his chair and studied the man standing across the desk from him. Athos’ eyes were still dulled, still shadowed, narrowed against the obviously painful glare of sunlight streaming in from the window and ringed by dark circles that spoke of sleepless nights. He was pale, his cheeks hollow, and the close fit of his leathers made him appear more gaunt than merely slender.

Tréville began to suspect that his drinking wasn’t simply an occasional vice.

“Please tell me you’re fit to do this,” he sighed, only belatedly realizing he’d spoken the words aloud.

A single brow arched, the sole expression on that stoic face. “I shall leave you to judge that.”

Again Tréville heard the wealth, the education, the sheer _birthright_ , in that cultured if disinterested voice, and wondered anew just what sort of man he’d stumbled upon. His regiment was filled with younger sons of noble houses, yet something in Athos’ bearing put him far above them all, as if he were no _younger_ son, but–

He dismissed the thought as idiocy. What in God’s name would an actual _titled_ nobleman be doing stewing in the taverns of Paris, or hiring himself out as a sword master?

Which reminded him …

“You’ve not asked about compensation yet,” he said. “I’m afraid I can offer only a small purse–”

Athos waved a graceful hand in dismissal. “No doubt it will be more than I need, yet less than I am worth,” he said, as if money were of no concern. “Again, I leave it to your judgment.”

Tréville blinked. So not an _impoverished_ nobleman, then. The mystery that was Athos deepened.

“Very well,” he said briskly, deciding the mystery would have to wait, “let’s get started.” He rose to his feet and stepped around his desk. “I’ll have the men start sparring so you may see what you’ll be working with. If that’s agreeable?”

Athos gave a courtly bow. “I can hardly wait.”

Tréville wondered if he’d only imagined the faint and gently mocking smile tugging at that scarred mouth.

*****

Tréville had expected Athos to keep himself apart and simply watch as the men sparred, gauging their levels of proficiency and providing advice from a distance, but was soon disabused of that notion. The young man was everywhere, moving among the Musketeers, correcting stances, adjusting wrists, grips, arms and feet, demonstrating attacks, defenses, movements. He explained technique, theory and practical application thoroughly and clearly, with the air of a master of his craft.

That mastery was much in evidence when he fought.

The men at first volunteered eagerly to spar against him, each certain an experienced soldier could beat a drawing-room dilettante. Each one lost. Soon he was forced to select his opponents – his victims – and bested them all as well. But he was never ungracious in victory, was always careful of his opponents’ dignity and honor, and so won also their grudging – at first – admiration and respect.

He did not, however, join in with the banter and teasing that flowed so naturally between these men, did not share anything of himself with them. When he deemed the lesson done, he simply bowed to them, paid his respects to Tréville and pledged his return if the Captain so wished – which the Captain heartily did – and left the garrison.

So it continued for a week, then two, and then three. Athos came, taught and left. Sometimes he was almost sober when he arrived, sometimes clearly fighting the effects of a vicious hangover, sometimes still drunk. And sometimes he dragged in looking as if he’d spent the entire night before battling legions of demons. On those days, he abandoned his veneer of grace, elegance and control and fought with a raw and ruthless ferocity that was still somehow beautiful, if frightening, to behold.

Only the bravest, or most foolish, men dared face his blades on those days. And Tréville quickly learned to keep Athos in his office with him when that blackness was upon him, letting the younger man pace out his nervous energy or simply sit slumped exhaustedly in a chair while the Captain pulled – sometimes word by sullen word – evaluations of the men he was training from him.

And for a man who never joined in with them, Athos had a keen eye for the personalities, abilities and potential of the men around him. Tréville realized that Athos saw and heard much more than the men realized, that he gleaned much more insight into their natures from his training of them than they realized, and that he tailored his training around this insight. The hotheads he wore down by turning their own impatience and impetuousness against them. The diffident or uncertain ones he treated with patience and solicitude. And those eager and willing to learn received every bit of time, effort and expertise he could give them. He could also impose order on rowdy spirits and quell any disturbance among the men with a cold command.

Tréville began to want him in the Musketeers, _as_ a Musketeer, _desperately_.

For there was far more to the man than ability with a sword. On those days when Tréville had to keep him in his office until he could control his shattered nerves enough not to kill or maim any of the men, when he simply let him prowl and pace until his head cleared and his hands stopped shaking, Athos would distract himself by rifling through Tréville’s books, thus starting conversations about history, politics or simply the value of a good Armagnac (a subject in which the young man was, regrettably, all too well versed). He had a keen intellect and quick mind, a wry, dry wit and a grasp of court life and politics that only seemed to confirm the Captain’s suspicions about his noble station.

Yet he never referred to his family by name or to whatever title he held. Nor did he ever mention whatever trauma or tragedy it was that he sought to drown in drink.

And that habit of drinking worried Tréville no end. He knew dependence when he saw it, and it was plain in Athos. It was there in the scent of wine that still clung to him when he came through the garrison gates in the morning, in the way his hands began to shake if he went too long in the day without a drink, in the desperation with which he would snatch up a cup to still the shaking. It was in the stories the men told when they thought Tréville wasn’t listening of seeing Athos drinking himself almost into insensibility in one tavern or another at night (though the other stories they shared, of watching over him to make sure he came to no harm as he stumbled back to his rooms in the Rue Férou, told of the esteem they’d developed for him). And it was in the sheer _thirst_ Tréville could see in him when Athos stared at the bottle on the desk between the two of them, in the way his hands curled into fists at his sides or dug into the arms of his chair, the way his whole body strained toward the bottle even as he fought to keep himself for lunging for it.

That thirst would kill him one day, Tréville knew.

Unless he were given a reason to conquer it …

And therein lay, Tréville hoped, the solution to both their problems.

The more he saw and learned of Athos, the more he wanted, _needed_ , him in the Musketeers. France’s elite regiment needed his sword, yes, but even more it needed his intelligence, his sense of honor and devotion to duty, the nobility that had nothing to do with his family name, position or title – whatever that might be.

The Musketeers needed _Athos_.

And God knew Athos needed the Musketeers.

Fortunately, Tréville was in a position to make certain they both got what they needed.

*****

About a month after he’d first come through the gates, Athos was training the recruits, men who hoped to be Musketeers but had not yet won the pauldron. The ranks of the group had already thinned considerably – not every man who thought himself Musketeer material actually was; Tréville’s standards were high, and he’d instilled that same demanding nature into his lieutenants – and the time for a final decision was at hand. Tréville was standing at the railing outside his office on the second-floor landing, watching everything happening below him.

Watching _Athos_.

The younger man’s temper was on a tight leash. He’d come in this morning hung over and worn thin from a night of drinking but ready to get to work, his demons at least temporarily pacified. But that peace had steadily eroded as the morning had progressed, mainly due to the behavior of three recruits, two second sons and one third son of minor noble houses with some tenuous connection to the King. Yet the three young men seemed to consider themselves princes of the blood. They despised the manual labor Tréville imposed upon all his men, seemed to consider cleaning weapons, grooming horses and mucking out stables entirely beneath their exalted stations and were constantly finding ways to cajole or simply bribe others into performing those tasks. They questioned orders they didn’t like, bristled at taking any correction, treated with sneering disdain anyone they considered beneath them. Which was almost everyone.

Porthos had already flatly refused to spend one moment more training them. Aramis had come perilously near shooting one of them yesterday. Cornet couldn’t say their names without spitting and had threatened to resign his commission if the three were allowed into the regiment. Tréville had given them to Athos this morning as one final test.

For _Athos_.

And the man had clearly reached a snapping point.

Fort the past week, he had been leading the recruits through ever more intricate steps and maneuvers, ever more complicated techniques of attack, riposte, parry, feint. They were dancing with deadly intent. Most were entranced by what they were learning, even those having difficulty mastering the new skills. They pestered Athos with questions, had him demonstrate time and again, volunteered to try their skills against him and laughed when they inevitably lost.

Except for the three upstarts.

They refused to listen to Athos, having decided that they had nothing to learn from some drunkard who didn’t even possess a title, refused to listen to his instruction … and grew ever more truculent as he beat them time after time. They challenged him, questioned him, insulted him. And he was losing patience. With the others, he took his victories as a chance to teach, explaining how he’d won and why his opponent had lost. With these three, he simply _beat_ them, quickly and ruthlessly, showing no mercy, no pity, no interest in teaching. He had passed from bored disdain into open contempt, brow arching and scarred mouth twisting into a sneer each time he bested them.

“You should stop now,” he advised softly, the blade of his sword laid against the throat of one young man, the other two disarmed and in the dirt behind him. “Your arrogance and impatience are your undoing. So long as you cling to them, this will never have a different outcome.” He pressed the blade a fraction deeper, not breaking the skin but coming close. “And if you persist, I shall take you and your friends apart.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” the boy spat. “You know who my father is–”

“I know,” Athos said in a low voice. “I just don’t care. Now,” he withdrew his sword and stepped back, “you and your two comrades sheathe your blades and get out of my sight. We’re finished here.”

He turned his back and stalked away. For a moment, it seemed as if the boy would charge after him, but a silent wall of recruits formed to one side, clearly watching him, and guarding Athos.

And Athos let them. He never so much as glanced back at the seething young man, merely sheathed his blades and continued walking.

 _Trusting_ in the men he’d trained.

Watching it all unfold, Tréville made his decision.

“Athos,” he called down, waiting as the younger man stopped and looked up at him. “A moment, please.” He turned and went back into his office, not bothering to make certain Athos would obey.

He already knew.

He was seated at his desk when Athos came in, a list of names on his desk. When Athos stopped before him, Tréville nodded toward the list.

“These are the men I shall submit to the King for commissions,” he said. “I’d like your opinion.”

Athos arched a brow as if surprised, as if he and Tréville hadn’t already been having these discussions. “My opinion?” he asked softly. “Why should that matter? I am not a Musketeer.”

Tréville fought to keep a smile from forming. “Nonetheless, I value your judgment. As does Cornet.” _And countless others_ , he added silently.

He wondered when Athos would accept, or even realize, the respect he’d earned from these men, who did not give their respect lightly.

Athos merely stared at him a moment longer, green eyes as cool as ever, then shrugged and reached out to pick up the list.

He paced as he read and Tréville watched him closely, noted each flicker of expression that crossed his face as he considered the names, and the men who bore them. There were sons of nobility there, of course, but also sons of merchants and farmers. Some had come from the army and had already proven themselves in battle; some had never seen war and had only proven themselves here. Tréville studied Athos as he went over each name, the man nodding in approval or frowning slightly in puzzled thought until he grasped the Captain’s reasoning, his eyes warming with intensity as he read and considered, his face losing entirely its customary look of blank disinterest. It was fascinating to watch.

 _Especially_ when those eyes hit the last name on the list.

Athos gasped and looked up sharply, the paper falling from his hands, his eyes wide, a look of mingled shock, confusion and something approaching _horror_ chasing over his face. “What– What in God’s name is _this_?” he rasped thickly.

Tréville remained cool. “That is your name,” he said easily. “I am putting you forward for a commission in His Majesty’s Musketeers.”

“ _Why?_ ” The word tore from him in a strangled cry, his eyes filling with something very like agony.

Tréville sighed, forcing patience upon himself. He had anticipated this reaction, as had Cornet, the two of them rehearsing every protestation of unworthiness they’d expected Athos to make and their own refutations of each one in a discussion that had lasted almost until dawn.

Cornet wanted Athos in the regiment as much as did Tréville.

“Because,” he said at last, staring at Athos and holding that tormented gaze with his own, “I cannot think of a man who would wear the uniform with more honor or serve His Majesty, serve _France_ , with more devotion or distinction. You have intelligence, courage and skill. Yet even more, you have a sense of duty such as I’ve rarely seen. His Majesty needs all those qualities in the men who serve him. He needs _you_.”

Athos exhaled sharply and began to shake, fine tremors running through his entire body. Desperation that was almost panic glittered in his eyes. “You know nothing about me!” he rasped. “You do not know who I am or what I have done–”

“Only because you will not tell me!” Tréville answered, fighting to keep any harshness from his voice. He would not allow Athos to turn him from this. “And, frankly, I’m not certain I care. I know the _kind_ of man you are. I’ve seen it. I can’t imagine that suddenly learning your family name or your title – don’t bother to deny you have one – would change anything in that regard. I also know there is something in your past that haunts you, that torments you, and I wish to God I could change that. But I can’t. We all carry our past with us, and must learn to bear that weight.” _Savoy_ , his own mind whispered accusingly. _Porthos._

He pushed the treacherous thoughts away resolutely and rose to his feet, moving around the desk to stand before Athos. “I can name a dozen men in this regiment who have pasts they regret, who have things in those pasts that shame them. Fortunately for us all, this is a regiment of soldiers and not monks, so I do not require pure souls. Only honest and dutiful ones. And you, Athos, more than adequately satisfy that requirement.”

“I–”

“The men respect you,” Tréville said quietly, setting a hand on one bowed shoulder, feeling clearly the tension and trembling in the younger man’s body. “Just now, a bunch of recruits whom you have thrashed repeatedly and soundly stood ready to put themselves between you and an idiot who threatened you. To _protect_ you. And they are not the only ones in this garrison who would do so. You have more friends here than you know. Cornet respects you and wants you in the regiment. Most of all,” he squeezed Athos’ shoulder and leaned closer to him, “ _I_ want you in this regiment. You deserve that pauldron. You’ve _earned_ it. You only have to let yourself accept it.”

Athos still looked as if his world had been shaken to its foundations. He was pale, eyes wide and wild, breath coming fast and shallow, hands trembling as if he badly needed a drink. Which, Tréville thought, he almost certainly did.

“The K– The King–”

“Wants pretty toy soldiers in bright blue cloaks whom he can parade around at court and use to prick occasionally at Richelieu while waving them in the faces of Spain and England as the flower of French nobility,” Tréville said with equal parts irritation and affection. He loved Louis. But he also knew the man. “But he _needs_ real soldiers, men who will fight and bleed and die for him, for France, who will serve him with the last measure of their lives. Men who will fight his wars and carry out his laws and serve him in whatever manner he requires. And _I_ need men whom I can trust to do all that while also looking out for their brothers. But,” he dropped his hand from Athos’ shoulder and straightened, lifting his chin, “if you cannot do any of that, then tell me plainly and I will let you go. For I will, and do, have many kinds of men in this regiment, but I will not have a liar or a coward.”

The words visibly stung Athos, as he’d intended them to. Athos might despise himself, for whatever reason, might have allowed himself to fall into drink and despair, but he still clung tightly, even desperately, to his honor, as if it were the only thing he’d managed to keep untarnished in this world, the only thing keeping him tethered to this world. As it well might be.

And not even to avoid something he felt he did not deserve would he betray his honor.

“I am a son of France,” he said softly, simply. “I will ever do as she asks.” He swallowed hard and licked his lips, then bowed stiffly to Tréville. “I am in no way worthy of the honor you place upon me,” he breathed, still sounding as if he might shatter at any moment, “but if you truly wish it, then I shall accept a commission.”

Tréville exhaled deeply in relief, but did not allow himself to smile just yet.

“I have three conditions,” he warned, knowing any one of them could still send Athos running from the garrison, never to return. “The first is that you must never, _ever_ be drunk on duty, and you must always be presentable when reporting for duty. I won’t have you dragging in here barely able to stand and reeking of wine, piss and vomit, do you understand?”

Athos flinched, but nodded. “Perfectly,” he said, sounding more like himself.

Tréville jerked his head in a sharp nod, wondering just how long that understanding would last and dreading the inevitable confrontation when it didn’t. “Second, you are not to actively try to get yourself killed while in the service. I will not condone suicide among my men. If you die and I suspect for a _moment_ that it was your choice, I will _personally_ throw your body into the Seine and have every mention of your name struck from regimental records. Do you understand?”

Athos stiffened, and Tréville realized he’d just taken away something the man had actually considered. The realization saddened him far more than it angered him.

After a long, long moment, Athos sighed. “You have my word,” he breathed.

Tréville clung to what this man’s word meant to him for reassurance. It would have to be enough.

“Third and finally,” he said, relieved to have gotten this far, “I need a name. It doesn’t have to be your full one, but you noblemen always have more than you need. Just string together one or two of them and use that.”

Athos frowned in confusion. “Pardon?”

Tréville sighed and ran a hand through his thinning hair. Strange, he’d had a full head when he’d been given command of these idiots. “I need a name I can give the King to put on your commission,” he explained with forced patience. “He has some poor clerk actually write the things out, and he won’t give one to a man with only one name. But,” he added hopefully, “he does love signing those with important names and titles.”

Athos stared coolly at him. “Sadly, His Majesty shall have to cope with disappointment. There will be no title on mine.”

“You do understand that he commissions his men personally?” Tréville persisted, wondering if Athos had considered this. “He sees it as his duty to his regiment. And he considers himself good with faces, especially those of his nobility. If he should know you–”

A faint smile tugged at Athos’ mouth. “I am but one man among His Majesty’s countless loyal subjects,” he drawled. “Why on earth should he know me?”

Tréville sighed, but gave up in the face of that stubbornness.

He did wonder, though, just how furious Cornet would be if he strangled Athos before they could get him commissioned.

*****

One week later, His Majesty presided over the commissioning ceremony for twenty of his newest Musketeers. Wearing his own bright blue sash, he tapped each man on the shoulder with his sword, addressing him by name (as whispered in his ear by Captain Tréville) and presenting him with his pauldron, blue cloak and written commission (as handed to him by a small army of retainers).

The last man to receive the King’s attention was slender and green-eyed, with newly cut hair and a well-groomed beard and wearing immaculate black riding leathers. He dropped gracefully to his knees and bowed his head reverently, then gave a small, soft smile as the King touched the sword to his shoulder and pronounced him a Musketeer and a _chevalier_ of France. Eyes shining, he accepted the cloak and commission from the King, and dutifully kissed the hand that now held his fate.

But it was Captain Tréville himself who slid the pauldron onto his shoulder and buckled it in place, who gripped his shoulders fiercely and smiled warmly at him, who welcomed him into this new life.

The name written on his commission, the name he’d finally, grudgingly, given Tréville, was _Olivier d’Athos_. But he would only ever be known among these men, these new brothers, as _Athos_.

And it was enough.


	2. Company on the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tréville just wants his idiot children to play nicely together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remain a sucker for the friendship between Athos and Aramis. It is my kryptonite.

“Captain–”

“Athos–”

“I don’t understand–”

“Nor do you have to,” Tréville snapped finally. “You only have to receive my orders, say, ‘yes, Captain,’ and then carry them out. You’ll notice I said nothing about understanding, agreeing with or liking those orders. Understood?”

Athos stared straight ahead. “Yes, Captain,” he answered obediently.

Tréville narrowed his eyes, but the other man’s smooth tone and impassive face gave away nothing. “It is a simple mission,” he said. “You have only to go to the magistrate in Reims, deliver to him the list of royal charges against the prisoner Blanchard, and then return. I fail to see what is so complicated.”

“You’re sending me with Aramis and Porthos.”

Tréville sighed. _Ah, there it was._ “I am.”

“It’s a two-man mission at most,” Athos said. “We’re delivering a _letter_.”

“You’re delivering a _royal document_ ,” Tréville corrected, again struggling for patience. “And the mission calls for as many men as I deem appropriate. In this case, three. Specifically, _you_ three.”

Athos made a sharp sound of irritation. “Aramis is rash, impulsive, and doesn’t like to follow orders. And he talks too much.”

“And you rarely talk at all.” _Unless you’re talking back to me_ , he added silently. “It evens out in the end.”

“I cannot promise I won’t kill him.”

Tréville bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger. “Porthos will stop you,” he ground out through clenched teeth. “Just as he’ll stop Aramis from killing you. That would be why I’m sending Porthos.”

“Then why not just send–”

“God _damn_ it, Athos!” Tréville shouted, slamming his hands into his desk and shooting to his feet. To his great satisfaction, he visibly startled the younger man, sending him back a step and replacing his usual look of bored disinterest with one of wide-eyed shock. “You and Aramis _have_ to learn to get along and work together! You are two of my best men – most of the time – and I cannot have you at each other’s throats! So go with him to Reims, deliver the King’s charges, and come back! _Without_ killing Aramis, _without_ his killing you, and _without_ making Porthos kill either of you! _Am I understood?_ ”

Athos stiffened, his eyes widening again, then he swallowed and bowed slightly. “Yes, Captain,” he answered coolly. “Is that all, Captain?”

Tréville sank back down into his chair. “Yes. Get your horses and go. I want you on the road as soon as possible. The magistrate is waiting.”

Athos bobbed his head again, then turned and strode out of the office without a further word.

As he closed the door a bit too forcefully behind him, Tréville groaned and dropped his head into his hands.

Children. His men were bloody goddamned _children_!

*****

“Your mission to Anjou was supposed to be a _simple_ one!” Tréville seethed, stalking up and down before the three men standing at attention in his office, his gaze spearing each one as he passed. “You were ordered to escort the officials taking the King’s gifts and greetings to his brother, and otherwise _remain invisible_ to avoid antagonizing him! The Duc is unhappy enough _privately_ with his impending marriage to the Duchess of Montpensier. The cardinal – and the King – had hoped to prevent any _public_ displays of displeasure! Now, perceiving some personal affront in this _matter_ with the Duchess de Chevreuse’s maid, he is sulking like a child, and an unhappy Gaston is a dangerous Gaston!” He stopped before Aramis and glared at him. “Would you care to explain yourself?”

Aramis blinked and swallowed, but for once words seemed to elude him.

“To be fair, Captain,” Athos’ smooth drawl broke quietly into the tense silence, “it wasn’t _entirely_ Aramis’ fault. We had no idea the Duchess would be there, and certainly had no idea we were intruding upon whatever … _intrigue_ ,” his lip curled disdainfully, “they were hatching. And we could hardly remain out of the way when the Duc’s hunting party was attacked. Aramis’ indiscretion with Madame’s maid was merely another,” he sighed, “ _inconvenience_.”

Aramis turned to him and bowed his head. “Thank you. Though I would hardly call a mild flirtation an inconvenience–”

 _“You were in the duchess’ bed chamber!_ ” Athos hissed, rounding on Aramis with a barely contained fury. “The Duc could hardly be faulted for suspecting–”

“And here we go again,” Porthos breathed, bowing his head.

Aramis gasped and clasped a hand to his heart. “Athos, I’m hurt!” he protested. “We had just foiled an attack upon the Duc! I was merely checking to make certain the premises were safe–”

“We _saw_ you!” Athos spat. “ _I_ saw you! _The duchess_ saw you! _We caught you in the bloody act!_ ” He thrust a finger into Aramis’ face. “You had your hands all over that girl’s–”

“Which, incidentally,” Aramis interrupted coolly, as if Athos weren’t about to stab him in the eye with that finger, “raises an intriguing question.” He lifted two dark brows. “Why was the duchess bringing _you_ to her bed chamber, anyway?”

“Oh, God,” Porthos groaned with the air of one who had been down this road before and knew just where it led. “Aramis, don’t, please–”

Tréville realized he’d been entirely forgotten and watched his men in fascination, suddenly understanding just how much they left out of their reports to him.

Athos reacted as if he’d been shot. His entire body jerked, his face paled and his eyes went wide with shock and horror. A moment later, he snarled out a curse and reached out to grab the front of Aramis’ doublet, jerking the other man to him.

“I warned ya,” Porthos sighed, looking and sounding utterly untroubled by the prospect of bloody violence between two of his brother Musketeers. “I told ya to leave it alone, but you never listen. Always gotta push.”

“How _dare_ you!” Athos spat through clenched teeth, shaking Aramis hard. “How dare you insinuate that I would … that I _could_ – I would _never_ –”

“Yes, you see,” Aramis pried Athos’ hands loose and pushed him away, setting his hands on his hips and looking the very picture of wounded innocence, “ _you_ say that, and we’re supposed to believe you. _I_ say it, and everyone scoffs–”

“ _Because I actually would never, and you do all the goddamned time!_ ” Athos shouted.

Tréville and Porthos stared in shocked amazement at his utterly uncharacteristic display of raw emotion. Aramis merely grinned sheepishly and shrugged.

“Can I help it if I am blessed with a romantic nature?”

Athos uttered an inarticulate sound – something somewhere between choking and screaming – and turned away, throwing his hands helplessly into the air.

Tréville turned to Porthos, completely at a loss, and the big Musketeer sighed and shrugged.

“Yeah, this is my life now.” He grinned. “But, believe it or not, they really are gettin’ along better.”

Tréville stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “This is them _getting along_?”

“Yeah, well,” Porthos shrugged again, “it is _them_.”

Tréville thought about that for a moment, then realized with a sinking feeling that Porthos was probably right. This _was_ them – and the rest of his life.

*****

Athos approached Aramis slowly, careful to make certain his approach was heard. Aramis stood away from the small camp, back turned to the fire, staring into the trees beyond the clearing.

“Want some company?” he asked quietly.

Despite his efforts to be heard, Aramis was visibly startled, spinning to face him with a sharp gasp, his hand flying to his pistol.

“Peace,” Athos breathed, reaching down to lay a hand against the other man’s. “It’s only me.”

Aramis deflated and bowed his head, closing his eyes and exhaling unsteadily. “I’m sorry, I– I suppose–”

“It’s all right,” Athos assured him. “I understand.”

And he did. They’d hoped to reach Paris by evening, but the day’s heavy snowfall had so slowed them that they’d been nowhere near the city when the sun had begun its descent. Instead, they’d been forced to stop here and make camp for the night. In a clearing among the trees. In the snow.

Aramis had been twitchy since they’d stopped, to no one’s great surprise. He’d eaten only sparingly, had drifted in and out of conversations, and had volunteered for first watch, no doubt because he’d be unable to sleep. Athos had claimed second watch and Porthos third, though both had known Aramis had no intention of waking anyone for relief. Porthos had finally, reluctantly, fallen asleep, fighting it as long as he could. Athos, too cold to sleep, had stayed awake, watching as Aramis paced the moonlit snow between the fire and the trees.

Caught in the shadows of Savoy.

“It’s ridiculous, I know,” Aramis murmured, head still bowed, shame creeping into his voice. “But sometimes … I still … see them–”

“It’s not ridiculous at all,” Athos said gently. He moved closer to Aramis until their shoulders brushed and joined him in staring into the trees. “They will always be with you in some way. Memory can be as much a curse as a blessing, and some ghosts refuse to lie quietly in their graves.”

He knew. God, how he knew. There were times he would swear he saw _her_ lurking in the shadows of Paris.

Aramis looked up and smiled weakly. “You have an odd way of giving comfort.”

Athos shrugged wearily. “I do not believe in facile lies,” he said quietly. “I could say you will forget them, but to what purpose? We both know you never will. Some things simply cannot be forgotten. The most we can do is learn to accept the past, make our peace with it and go on living. And, yes, I know,” he added with a trace of self-mockery, “I am hardly the best example of that.”

“But at least you are trying,” Aramis said. “ _We_ are trying. It’s just–”

“I know,” Athos breathed, only too familiar with what Aramis was feeling. “Sometimes the ghosts press a bit too closely, and it’s difficult to resist their call. But I suppose that is when we most need the company of the living. To remind us that we are not lost yet. Or,” he glanced at Aramis and lifted two brows pointedly, “that is what my friends tell me.”

“Is it?” Aramis relaxed then, a smile much more like his familiar, easy one curving about his lips. “You must have remarkable friends.”

“Yes,” Athos breathed, his own lips twitching in a smile, “that is also what they tell me.”

*****

“Drop your weapons.” The assassin tightened his arm about his captive’s chest and pressed the edge of his dagger more deeply into his throat. “Or this one dies.”

“Oh, that’s bad luck for you,” Aramis rasped, smiling weakly as he felt that blade nicking his skin. His head throbbed from the blow Malthus had dealt him to bring him down, and he could feel blood trickling through his hair. But he dared not let his attention wander, knew Athos would need him to stay alert. “He doesn’t like me enough to miss the chance of killing you.”

The assassin tensed, clearly considering his hostage’s words, and frowned at the man facing them both. The Musketeer still held his sword in one hand and a pistol, which he had a nagging suspicion hadn’t been fired yet, in the other. Cold green eyes watched his every move with a predatory intensity.

“That true?”

Athos lifted his chin, surveying the distance between himself and the man holding Aramis, his mind rapidly calculating. Even if he _could_ get his pistol up and aimed in time, there was no guarantee he’d make the shot. Malthus was holding Aramis too close, using him as a shield. And _he_ was no Aramis.

“He does annoy me,” he answered at last, voice laconic as always. But his gaze never left Malthus, watching for the slightest lapse in the man’s attention. And his hands never loosened their hold on his weapons. “And I do so want to kill you. You’re a murderer and a traitor. It is my duty to see you dead.”

“There, you see? Now you’ve done it,” Aramis said, trying to lean back from that threatening blade. “You’ve offended his sense of duty. He takes that _very_ seriously. Something of a sticking point with him, actually.”

“Thought you Musketeers took your loyalty to each other seriously, too,” Malthus said. “One for all, and all that shit.”

Aramis could feel the man’s confusion as the blade pulled back just a fraction, a very _welcome_ fraction, yet still not enough for him to act. “Well, yes, for most of us,” he allowed. “But that man standing there, killing you in gruesome ways in his mind, is Athos of the King’s Musketeers. Honestly, that might as well be his full name. And he has a hierarchy of loyalties. God, King, France– No, wait.” He frowned, thinking. “We should probably take out God. The less said about Athos’ current relationship with the Almighty, the better for us all. That way lies heresy. Or at least blasphemy. And the King and France are, for all practical purposes, the same in his mind. So, really–”

“Shut up!” Malthus spat.

“Now you know how I feel,” Athos sighed. “If you release him, I’ll make him stop talking.”

“And you’d kill me.”

“But at least you wouldn’t have to listen to _him_ ,” Athos pointed out reasonably. “I’d be doing you a favor.”

Malthus shifted on his feet, as if suddenly seeing the gaping error in his plan. “He really doesn’t like you, does he?”

“It’s _Athos_ ,” Aramis said, as if that explained everything. “He doesn’t really like anyone. Except the barmaid bringing his next bottle. He worships her.”

“I _can_ hear you,” Athos drawled, studying Aramis in an effort to see just how badly he was hurt, how compromised his reflexes might be. Around them, Musketeers and Red Guards were streaming into the gardens from all directions, but he stilled their advances with a slight shake of his head, not wanting to spook Malthus into killing Aramis. All the while, he studiously avoided giving any attention at all to the one Musketeer he prayed would continue his advance. “And I am still armed.”

“Ah, just for clarification,” Aramis asked, “exactly _which_ of us are you contemplating shooting?”

Athos arched a brow. “You’re the marksman. Is there a way I can get you both?”

Of course, that was precisely the problem. Just now, there was no way he could shoot Malthus _without_ hitting Aramis.

“Bastard,” Aramis grumbled.

“Can _still_ hear you,” Athos said.

“I _will_ kill him!” Malthus shouted. “I’m not bluffing!”

“Of course you’re not,” Athos said, anger giving his voice a hard edge. “Men such as you never bluff. You will murder servants and soldiers and leave their bodies in the bushes, try to kill your King and hide behind a hostage when you are caught, but you never _bluff_.” Contempt dripped from his words. “So _honorable_ of you.”

“I should probably have warned you,” Aramis said. “Honor is another sticking point of his–”

“Shut up–”

“Aramis, _left!_ ” Athos shouted.

Three things happened at once. Porthos rose from his concealment in the bushes behind Malthus and fired his pistol. Aramis shoved Malthus’ hand – and dagger – away from his throat and tore out of the man’s grip, throwing himself to the ground at the assassin’s left. And Athos raised his pistol and fired.

Malthus fell to the ground dead, one hole in his back, another in his head.

Athos dropped his pistol and raced to Aramis, throwing himself to his knees at the man’s side and reaching out to grab his shoulders. “Aramis!” he called harshly, eyes glittering in his pale face as he roughly pulled the other man into a sitting position and studied him intently for any new wounds. “Are you all right?”

Aramis exhaled sharply, unsteadily, and shuddered, leaning into Athos and clutching at his arms. “I– Yes, I think so,” he gasped. “I honestly thought he’d kill me.”

“I would never have let that happen!” Athos whispered, _vowed_ , fiercely, long fingers digging into Aramis’ shoulders.

Aramis lifted his head at that. “Athos,” he said softly, gravely, shifting a hand from Athos’ arm to his chest, just above his heart, “you will not always be able to prevent it. You are a formidable man, but,” he regarded Athos with far too much knowing in his eyes, “you are not God. You can’t always be everywhere, you can’t always see everything. And you can’t always save everyone.”

Athos gasped and tensed, suddenly wondering just how much he’d revealed in his drunken ramblings or delirious ravings.

Aramis smiled sadly, ghosts of his own lurking in his eyes. “Sometimes, my friend,” he breathed, “death wins out despite our best efforts.”

Athos huffed out a breath and rose to his feet, hauling Aramis up with him and steadying him when he reeled slightly. “Not if I can help it. Not ag–” He broke off abruptly, realizing what he’d almost said. But something in Aramis’ dark and sorrowful eyes told him the other man had heard it anyway. “You’re bleeding,” he said, his gaze going to the nasty gash Malthus’ pistol butt had left at Aramis’ hairline, just above his right temple.

“I know,” Aramis breathed, smiling sadly and again laying a hand over Athos’ heart. “Then again, aren’t we all?”

*****

He reached for the bottle and poured himself another cup of wine, managing not to spill any. This time. But small pools of red liquid dotting the table before him spoke of previous mishaps, of the unsteadiness of his hands and uncertainty of his aim.

That was all right, though. No one would need his sure hand and unerring eye tonight. He and his brothers had all returned alive, whole and mostly unscathed. _Safe._

It was the closest thing to a prayer he allowed himself these days.

Around him, the tavern was in happy chaos. The regiment had just returned home after the surrender of the rebels at Île de Ré, and they were now celebrating that return with the exuberance of those who had survived hell. Laughter and drunken singing rang against the rafters, barmaids squealed in playful protest of groping hands and lewd advances, arguments broke out over card and dice games, and the few Red Guards who still remained were insulted, challenged and thrashed.

This was his life now, his world. From the wealth, comfort and security of la Fère to … this.

It was so much more than he deserved.

He raised his cup to his lips and drank deeply, the wine thinner and more sour than the vintners on his estates would ever have dared produce for their lord the Comte. But for the Musketeer Athos, it would suffice.

A man could get as drunk off cheap wine as he could off the good.

And, frankly, tonight was more about _quantity_ than _quality_. They were safe, yes, but so many times it had been close, _too_ close. They’d been lucky, but one day that luck would run out. One day he’d be burying a brother.

_Again._

He drained his cup, then bowed his head and bent his attention to refilling it. When he sat upright again, or as close to upright as was now possible, Porthos was sitting across from him, smiling faintly at him.

When had the man learned to just _appear_ like that?

He frowned and blinked heavily, repeatedly, his sluggish, sodden mind trying to solve the puzzle. And failing.

“You weren’t there,” he said with the reasonableness of the deeply intoxicated.

“No, but I am now,” the big man answered with that same unassailable logic.

“So you are,” Athos sighed, raising his cup to his mouth.

“You all right?” Porthos asked quietly, worriedly, dark eyes soft and deep in the dim lighting.

Athos drank, then lowered his cup and lifted two brows. “Don’t I look all right?”

Porthos’ sharp snort expressed exactly how Athos looked to him. “Seen you better,” he said, then shrugged and admitted, “seen you worse, too.”

Athos smiled grimly. “Stay long enough, and you’ll see it again.” He lifted his cup in a mocking toast and drank deeply.

Porthos sighed and rested his arms on the table, gazing sadly at him. “You could let us ’elp, you know,” he said softly. “Whatever this is,” he waved a hand at the bottle, and the demons it represented, “it’s gonna kill you one day. And that would be a shame.”

Athos stared blankly at him. “Why?”

Porthos blinked and frowned, then blinked again and frowned more deeply still. “What?”

Athos waved the cup, spilling a bit of wine over the side. “Why would it be a shame?” he asked, his words slurring even to his own ears. “What makes you think … I don’t deserve this? You don’t know anything about me. I could– I could be–”

“Oi, now that’s a damned lie,” Porthos growled, leaning forward and pinning Athos with a fierce glare. “I know all about you I need to, all that’s really important. I’ve lived with you, fought with you, bled with you, sat at your bedside when you were sick or hurt and waked to see you sittin’ at mine. That’s all it takes to know anyone. And the man I know, the man sittin’ across from me, the man who’s saved my life an’ the lives of my friends more times than I could count, don’t deserve what you’re doin’ to ’im. ’E deserves better.”

Athos huffed out a dry, bitter sound. “Then clearly you don’t know me at all,” he countered, raising his cup once more.

But Porthos reached out and snatched it from him, setting it hard on the table. “You’ve ’ad enough.”

Athos snarled and leaned forward, reaching once more for the cup. Suddenly, though, both his wrists were pinned to the table under the grip of two big, merciless hands.

“I said,” Porthos seethed in a low, dangerous voice, “ _you’ve ’ad enough._ ”

“How dare you!” Athos spat, trying to break that grip and failing. Even sober he likely wouldn’t have succeeded. “You have no right–”

“I ’ave all the right of someone who can’t bear to see a friend killin’ himself like this!” Porthos insisted in a low, throbbing voice, sounding more in pain than angry.

The small part of Athos’ brain that still worked wondered why Porthos should be in pain. Had the man been injured and he somehow missed it?

“But, I’ll tell you what.” A crooked, almost feral grin twisted across that dark face. “You can ’ave more wine. _If_ you can free even just one hand to reach for it.”

Athos scowled bitterly, even his drunken mind knowing he’d never manage it. “That’s not fair!”

“Life’s not fair, you wine-sodden git!” Porthos snapped. “You think growin’ up in the Court of Miracles was fair? You think survivin’ Savoy only to be deserted by Marsac an’ left to carry all that alone was fair to Aramis? I could probably go through every man in the regiment and find some way life’s fucked him over. That’s just _life_ , Athos, that’s how life _works_. Yeah, sometimes it stinks, sometime it _hurts_ , but that’s just how it is. And it’s better than dyin’.”

“You don’t know!” Athos rasped thickly, pain and shame twisting through him with a nearly unbearable intensity. He could see again his brother’s body at his feet, the dark blood pooling on the floor, the knife in his wife’s hand, the noose dropping around her neck, her eyes damning him– He ripped his arms out of Porthos’ slackened grip and slammed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying desperately – and in vain – to banish those horrifying, accusing, haunting images. He’d failed them – failed Thomas, failed Anne, failed a proud, centuries-old family name – and he would inevitably fail these men, too. “You have no idea what I am, what I’ve _done_!”

And suddenly Porthos was there, wrapping strong arms about him and pulling him into the shelter of that big, solid body, enfolding him in warmth and strength and _care_ , making himself a living shield between Athos and his demons. Porthos held him, bowed over him, pressed his face into his hair and whispered words of apology, of comfort, of concern, of the kind of love he’d thought had died with Thomas.

“No, I don’t know,” Porthos murmured in that soft, deep, gentle voice. “I wish I did. I wish you’d open up and tell us so we could drain this poison from you and help you heal. But even if you don’t, we’re never gonna stop tryin’. We’re never gonna let you go, Athos. We’re never gonna let you drown yourself without tryin’ to pull you out.”

“Why?” he whispered brokenly, clinging desperately – and despite himself – to Porthos. “Why bother? Why not just let me go?”

Porthos sighed and tightened his hold. “Because you’re our friend,” he crooned softly, gently rocking Athos. “Because we care about you. Because, you stupid son of a bitch, you’re our brother, and brothers never let go.”

Athos gasped and shuddered and clung more tightly still to the arms holding him.

Maybe, just maybe, it was time he stopped trying to break this hold.

*****

“Would you _please_ tell me,” Aramis hissed through tightly clenched teeth, his dark eyes blazing with fury, “just what in the name of all that is holy you thought you were _doing_?”

Athos frowned slightly and stared through eyes that wouldn’t _quite_ focus at the man leaning over him, confused by Aramis’ anger. “I was thinking,” he said softly, breathlessly, “that I didn’t want you … to get shot.” He tried to sit up, but his body felt too heavy to move, _hurt_ too much to move. He gave up with a groan and simply let himself stay on the ground.

He frowned more deeply still, confused by that. Why was he on the ground? He must have stumbled, fallen. But … he hadn’t been drinking … had he?

“So you thought it would be _perfectly fine_ for _you_ to get shot instead? Because somehow _that_ would be better?”

Oh, right. Shot, not drunk. Shot keeping _Aramis_ from getting shot. That was all right, then …

“Stop that!” Aramis snapped, slapping away the unsteady hands interfering with his own attempts to unfasten Athos’ doublet. “Lie still. You’re bleeding enough already. Why do you need so many fucking _buttons_?” he growled in frustration.

Athos blinked and swallowed. “Fine buttons … are the mark … of a well turned-out gentleman,” he explained, the words coming by rote, drilled into his memory by his mother and valet.

“I’ll inscribe that on your gravestone,” Aramis snarled.

“What the hell happened?” Porthos demanded, dropping to his knees beside them.

“Idiot took a pistol ball meant for me,” Aramis seethed, still tugging at the row of buttons down Athos’ chest. “Couldn’t just shout out to me in warning, oh no! He had to _throw himself in the path_ of the goddamned ball! Fuck it!” He snatched Athos’ fallen poignard from the ground with one hand, gripped the doublet with the other, and prepared to slice the fine leather open.

“No!” Athos cried in horror, lunging upright.

“Shit, Porthos, _hold him_!” Aramis shouted, pulling the dagger back before Athos could impale himself upon it.

Porthos slipped behind Athos and cradled him securely against his chest, easily stilling his struggles. “Be still,” he soothed, resting his head against Athos’. “Be quiet. Just rest and let Aramis work.”

“Couldn’t let him … get shot,” Athos sighed, sinking helplessly into the warmth and strength enfolding him. Pain flared hotly through him, in his side near his hip and spreading outward in a hard, hot wave. He groaned and tried to move away from it, but Porthos only held him tighter. “Hurts.”

“I know,” Porthos crooned. “But it’s all right. We’ve got you. We’ll take care of you. Aramis?”

Aramis finally got the doublet open – _without_ cutting it – and swore under his breath at the blood soaking into Athos’ shirt and breeches. “Goddamn _fool_!” he growled, bending closer and probing the wound with careful fingers. “Don’t you ever lecture me about recklessness again!”

Athos cried out sharply and tried to escape the fresh onslaught of pain, fought against the hands tormenting him. But his own hands were taken into Porthos’ firm grip, and he could do nothing save gasp and shake and cling desperately to the hands holding his.

“The ball caught him just above the hip,” Aramis breathed as Athos’ blood flowed over his fingers. “Tore a nasty path through his side, but I don’t think it went deep enough to hit anything inside. Although it may have creased the bone on its way out.” He exhaled heavily and rubbed bloody fingers against his forehead. “I’ll need to clean it thoroughly before I sew it. Athos,” he called, leaning closer to the wounded man, “you carry brandy in your saddlebags, yes?”

He shook his head weakly. “Not … drunk,” he slurred. He knew he sounded it, thought perhaps he even felt it … felt sick and dizzy … but … “Not drunk,” he whispered again, _needing_ them to believe him. “Never … drunk … on duty. Promised–”

“Ssh, hush,” Aramis soothed, laying a finger against his lips to silence him. “I know you’re not drunk. You’ve been _shot_. I need the brandy to clean the wound.”

He wrenched his leaden eyes open – when had they closed? – and peered up at Aramis, trying to bring the man’s face into focus. And failing. “Had to save you,” he sighed, letting his eyes fall closed again. “Bastard was going … to shoot you. Couldn’t let him. Had … had to save you.”

“And you did,” Aramis said gently, stroking his cheek to calm him. “Now I need to save _you_.”

Athos smiled faintly. Even with his eyes closed he could see Aramis, the man’s dark, dancing eyes and mischievous smile parting the darkness gathering about him, could feel Porthos’ warmth and strength holding him, keeping him from falling into that darkness.

“I think,” he sighed, letting himself relax, letting himself go, knowing these two would always catch him, “you already have.”

*****

Tréville handed Athos the satchel containing the letters. “Take Aramis and Porthos–”

“Of course,” he sighed resignedly. “Why not make my joy complete?”

“It’s a simple mission–”

“You always say that,” he drawled. “Some day, you really must share your understanding of the word ‘simple’ with me.”

Tréville scowled. “That’s dangerously close to insubordination,” he warned.

Athos bowed his head. “Forgive me, Captain. It’s,” a smile tugged at his lips, “the company I keep. They are a terrible influence upon me.”

“Yes, well, take your terrible influences and get on the road.” He reached out and began rifling through the papers before him. “We wouldn’t want to keep the King’s business waiting.”

“Of course not.” He bowed, then turned and strode to the door. Once there, though, he stopped and said over his shoulder, “Thank you.”

Tréville looked up with a frown. “For what?”

“For–” Athos smiled again. “For giving me company on the road.” He opened the door and left the office.

At his desk, Tréville smiled warmly and returned to his work.

“You are more than welcome,” he said quietly.


	3. A Show of Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tréville can see the potential in Athos so clearly. So why can't Athos?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inspiration for the written commissions comes from the book. I liked the idea and decided to use it.
> 
> Also, Cornet gets a speaking part! Yay!

The first time Tréville chose Athos to accompany him to report to the King, it was merely a matter of necessity.

A small troop of Musketeers had been sent to meet and escort to Paris a courier carrying reports of another of the Duc d’Orleans’ plots to unseat his brother. The troop had been ambushed, the courier killed and the dispatches lost. To the same Spanish agents who had carried out the ambush. Tréville needed someone to explain how the disaster had happened, and Cornet, who had led the troop, had been too badly injured. That left Athos, who had been injured as well, but was at least able to walk and talk.

Athos – mildly concussed, bruised from shoulder to hip and nursing a badly sprained wrist – was less than thrilled. But Tréville waved the word “duty” in front of him and secured his (grudging) obedience.

Standing before a subdued Tréville, a sulking Louis and a gloating Richelieu, Athos hid his pain and his irritation, explained the encounter in that smooth, regal voice … and then stunned them all by working out with unimpeachable logic that the entire affair had been a ruse. The reports were false intelligence meant to be stolen, to mislead Spanish agents at work in France into revealing themselves, the courier was an expendable sacrifice, and the Musketeers there to make the entire charade look real.

Louis was ecstatic that, for once, his brother wasn’t actually plotting against him.

Richelieu was incensed that his fine plan had been laid bare, and by a mere _Musketeer_ , no less.

Tréville was outraged that his men had been put to such duplicitous use. _Again._

Athos simply looked tired and ready to be done with all of them, bowed elegantly despite his injuries when the King dismissed them, and followed Tréville out of the royal presence.

Then made his Captain buy him a bottle of wine at the first tavern they saw.

The second time Tréville chose Athos to accompany him was to make _Athos_ explain why some young and stupid distant relative of the King, and for some reason known only to God a _favorite_ relative, would never, _ever_ as long as any Musketeer drew breath be offered a commission in the regiment. Tréville couldn’t do it without committing treason. Cornet managed to avoid treason, but not blasphemy. Aramis avoided both, but only by questioning the boy’s parentage. Porthos just let fly with obscenities at the mere _mention_ of the young idiot’s name.

Tréville, at his wits’ end and fearing a general mutiny from his men, waved the word “duty” _and_ a bottle of wine at Athos (and tried desperately _not_ to think about the bad habit he was enabling) …

And watched in awe as Athos performed _beautifully_ , lying through his teeth to the King and making the boy sound like a saint who would be utterly _wasted_ in military service. Then, in a turn of malicious genius that warned Tréville _never_ to fall afoul of the man’s temper, Athos persuaded the King that his exceptional young relative would positively _thrive_ under Cardinal Richelieu’s singular tutelage and would _excel_ in that august personage’s service.

The King was delighted, and immediately ordered the Cardinal to take the young man under his wing.

Richelieu was rendered utterly speechless with horror and fury.

Tréville gave Athos a bottle of Armagnac instead of wine, tried not to think too much on how Richelieu would manage to rid himself – and France – of the young imbecile, and silently vowed to bring Athos to the palace more often.

Such talent for inflicting that kind of misery upon the Cardinal was not to be wasted.

*****

Tréville stared at the four newest graves in the Musketeer cemetery as somber men in blue cloaks departed in silence around him. Burying his men never got easier, never failed to _hurt_. Every loss struck him a terrible blow, the pain as searing now as it had been the very first time. Some wounds never got easier to bear.

And treachery made the pain even worse.

Baron Lavoisier might once have had a legitimate grievance against the King. Certainly the man hadn’t been alone in his dislike of some of the Crown’s – and the Cardinal’s – policies. Richelieu had never made a secret of his intent to break the power of the fractious French nobility in an effort to increase that of the Crown, and the man could be utterly ruthless when he chose.

But “legitimate grievance” ended when a man took up arms against his King, when he incited his own people to rebellion.

Adhering – reluctantly – to the King’s wishes that the matter be resolved peacefully, Richelieu had sent a small delegation of minor court officials to talk with Lavoisier. The baron, further infuriated by the insult he perceived in the officials’ relatively low status, had met the delegation with force. Two of the officials had been killed. Lavoisier claimed he had been provoked.

It didn’t matter. He had only played into Richelieu’s hands and condemned himself.

Armed with such evidence of treacherous intent, Richelieu had gone to the King and wrung from him a charge of treason and an order for a response by force. The King had called upon Tréville to send a troop of Musketeers, and Tréville, forced into rare agreement with Richelieu, had dispatched twenty of his best soldiers under the command of Lieutenant de Fleury.

The Musketeers had ridden under the King’s banner … and into a small army. Lavoisier had pressed all the men of his holdings into service, and had persuaded a neighboring baron who also held a grudge against Richelieu to join his cause. Between them, they had almost a hundred and fifty men. Against twenty. De Fleury had immediately sent a man back to Tréville for reinforcements, then had set his men to battle against their own countrymen.

True to their training, the men had fought bravely and well, holding out admirably even against such overwhelming numbers. But de Fleury had been killed early on, as had his second in command, leaving the men without an officer. Two more had died, another eight wounded to varying degrees. By all rights, the men’s nerve should have been shattered. But when Tréville had come thundering up with reinforcements, the men, his men, had still been fighting, grim and bloody, but determined.

He’d never loved them more, nor been more proud of them.

And of one in particular …

He bowed his head once more to the fresh graves, made the sign of the cross, then put on his hat and left the cemetery. He would personally write the letters to the families of the dead men. First, though, he needed to see to the living.

As he crossed the garrison courtyard, he noted the somber air that still hung over the men there. They stood or sat in small groups, talking quietly, no doubt exchanging reminiscences of the dead. It was their way. His men, for all their bickering and squabbling, were a close-knit bunch, and while they fought amongst themselves like children, the loss of a brother, much less four, hit them hard.

There would be blue cloaks aplenty in attendance at Lavoisier’s execution.

He made his way to the infirmary, where the most severely wounded lay. The doctors had done their work, stitching torn bodies back together, and now his men were resting. But none rested alone. At each bedside, he noted, one or two friends of the wounded man sat, offering quiet and steady companionship.

All for one, indeed.

He stopped at each bedside, exchanging a few words with those men who were awake, simply offering a father’s touch to those who weren't. Finally he reached the bed in the far corner, beside which Aramis sat slumped in a chair, elbows on his knees and hands buried in his hair, his hat and blue cloak on the floor beside him. Porthos sat on the floor, back against the wall, long legs stretched out before him, hat and cloak beside him. He started to get to his feet when Tréville approached, but the captain only waved him down.

Tréville stopped at the bedside and looked down. Athos was sleeping, though not entirely peacefully, his pale face creased in pain, his head moving restlessly against the thin pillow, bloodless fingers plucking feebly at the blanket covering him. Bandages swathed his upper body, and Tréville knew still more would be wound about his right thigh. He’d taken a musket ball in the left shoulder and another to the chest, though it had been deflected by a now-broken rib. A third ball had torn a deep and bloody wound through his thigh, though it had missed both artery and bone.

God seemed to have more regard for Athos than Athos did for God.

“How is he?” he asked quietly.

The answer, surprisingly, came from Aramis, who looked as if he were ready for a bed himself. “He’s resting, finally,” he said softly, voice raspy with weariness. He never lifted his head. “He lost quite a bit of blood. The surgeon … had to fish about for the ball in his shoulder. Took three of us to hold him down. I wouldn’t have thought he had that much strength left, but,” he sighed heavily, “I suppose he must always surprise us.”

Tréville shifted his gaze from Athos to Aramis. Seeing any of his brothers hurt never failed to affect him, but when it was Athos or Porthos, the pain and worry were always worse. Add to that the fact that he’d also seen four of his brothers buried–

Aramis never took funerals well. Not since Savoy. Tréville dropped a strong, comforting hand onto one bowed shoulder, understanding that particular pain only too well.

“I’ve been told by several of the men,” he said quietly, “that he stepped up after de Fleury and Beauchamp fell. They say he took command in a moment of chaos, held everyone together.”

“’E saved us,” Porthos said simply from his place against the wall, his dark gaze fixed on Athos. “Started givin’ orders like ’e was born to it, placin’ snipers, makin’ sure the wounded were gettin’ tended, encouragin’ those who were showin’ nerves. Even stopped a few of us from doin’ somethin’ really stupid.”

Tréville looked sharply at him. “Do I want to know?”

Porthos gave him a crooked, tired grin. “Prob’ly sleep better if you don’t.”

Tréville exhaled slowly and bowed his head, rubbing a hand over his face. Someday, he really needed to talk to Porthos about his berserker tendencies.

“He didn’t like the fact that Lavoisier sent an army of farmers against us while hanging back himself,” Aramis said, finally lifting his head and casting a wan grin up at Tréville. “Said the man was an insult to French chivalry and called him a coward. Loudly. I believe he may also have questioned the man’s parentage and challenged him to a duel.”

“’E’s a bastard for nerve,” Porthos said fondly, dark eyes shining. “Every time Lavoisier’s men came at us, Athos was right there in front, rallyin’ us, keepin’ us steady.” He snorted. “For a man who don’t talk much, ’e’s bloody damn good at roarin’ orders.”

Something in Porthos’ words tugged unpleasantly at Tréville’s attention, and he remembered one of his three conditions for admitting Athos into the regiment. “Out front?” he asked quietly, almost dreading the answer.

Porthos looked up at him, frowning slightly. “Yeah. Goin’ up and down the line – or as much of a line as we could manage – makin’ sure we all knew ’e was there, makin’ sure we all remembered why we were there. Givin’ us somethin’ to focus on.”

“Giving _you_ –” Tréville drew a deep breath. “Not giving Lavoisier’s men an … easy target?” _You are not to actively try to get yourself killed …_

Porthos seemed to understand. He looked up at his captain, his deep, dark eyes holding Tréville’s. “No, sir,” he answered in a deep, steady voice. “Oh, they wanted ’im dead, no doubt about that, just like they took de Fleury and Beauchamp out as quick as they could to deprive us of officers. Likely they thought Athos was one, way ’e was actin’. But somebody ’ad to step up. And ’e made ’em work for every piece of ’im they got.”

“He wasn’t trying to get himself killed,” Aramis said quietly but firmly, with the air of someone who knew that desire only too well. “He was trying to keep _us_ alive.”

“’E ’eld us together,” Porthos said. “Every time the men got shaky, they looked at ’im, took a deep breath and dug in. Even after ’e was shot, ’e was givin’ orders.”

“Imperious bastard,” Aramis breathed affectionately, leaning forward and reaching out to brush the sweat-damp hair back from Athos’ face. Athos’ restless moments stilled under his touch, and Aramis gently stroked a thumb against one cheekbone. “Easy,” he crooned as Athos moaned weakly. “We’re here.” Athos murmured, words barely intelligible, and Aramis leaned closer still. “We’re safe,” he said softly. “We’re back in the garrison. It’s all over.” He traced a cross over Athos’ forehead with a thumb, then laid his hand against the top of Athos’ head, as if in benediction. “We’re home, and we’re safe. You can rest now.”

Porthos shifted closer to the bed, adding his presence and his voice to the litany of comfort. Tréville watched in silence, marveling anew at the deep bond between such disparate men. A laughing berserker, a reckless romantic with a healer’s touch and a priest’s soul, and a chivalrous, imperious bastard. _Les Inséparables._

And Musketeers to their cores.

*****

Tréville and Cornet moved through the camp, talking with the men, comforting the injured and bereaved, sharing a laugh and a cup here and there with the more light-hearted, taking stock of the toll the day had taken on their men.

The siege of La Rochelle was grinding to an end; everyone could see it, feel it. The once mighty fortress had been reduced almost to rubble by more than a year of war and had become a hellhole of starvation and disease. More than twenty thousand of the rebels had died, and only a bare remnant was left to fight. They couldn’t hold out much longer, not against the might of the King’s armies. The King – and Richelieu – had vowed to crush them, and everyone knew that crushing was imminent.

The Rochellais, too, seemed to know it, and were fighting all the more desperately for it.

“We lost good men today,” Cornet sighed as they left one small huddle of soldiers and approached another. “I know we had to take that bastion, but I’d rather not have many more days like this.” He removed his hat and ran a hand through his sweat-damp dark hair. “If the bastards don’t surrender soon–”

“They can’t hold out much longer,” Tréville sighed. The words had become his nightly prayer. He was tired of losing men, tired of bending over the cots of the wounded and draping blue cloaks over those of the dead. He’d seen boys grow into men too soon, and grown men reduced to children, sobbing brokenly or calling for their mothers.

He was a soldier to his core, yet while he excelled at war, he never _enjoyed_ it.

As they drew near the soldiers they slowed their approach, gauging the mood of the men before joining them. There were some twelve or so gathered around two fires, seated on the ground or small stools, or stretched out on their bedding, wrapped in cloaks against the chill of the October night. They’d already finished eating their spare rations and were now passing around bottles of wine. Low conversation and occasional laughter rose between them, speaking of easy camaraderie. They could hear Aramis telling one of his outrageous stories, Porthos’ booming laughter, and a quieter voice, too low for them to hear what it said, but its calm, soothing tones familiar nonetheless.

“We really need to talk to him,” Cornet said, stopping, his hat still in his hands. “It’s past time.”

Tréville grimaced and shook his head. “He won’t listen to us. He doesn’t see it.”

Cornet snorted. “Then he’s the only one.” He jerked his chin toward the group. “Look at him.”

As they watched, a figure drifted among the men, spare but elegant in movement. Here and there he dropped a hand onto a bowed shoulder, murmured words too low for them to hear but that seemed to give comfort or consolation. Elsewhere he joined in more cheerful conversation, sharing a joke, offering praise or launching one of his wry barbs that brought laughter from those around him. He accepted a drink and raised his cup in salute, stopped to kneel by a young man cleaning and oiling a sword and shared some quiet conversation with him. He ran a finger down the blade, spoke a few words more, and Tréville and Cornet watched the young man, commissioned just before the siege and no more than nineteen, fairly beam with pride in the firelight.

“He’s got a way with them,” Cornet said. “They look to him for strength and steadiness. He’s got a cool head in battle, and that gives them courage.”

Tréville nodded; he’d seen it often enough. Athos had the rare gift of natural leadership. The men listened to him, trusted him. He could inspire courage in those whose nerve was faltering and keep the most foolhardy from rash action. More than once he’d risked his life to protect another’s, and more than once he’d accepted responsibility, and the punishment that came with it, for a mistake that had been another’s. The men damn near _worshipped_ him because they’d seen his quality.

Tréville only wished _Athos_ saw it.

He heaved a sigh, still watching the man’s fire-lit figure. Aramis said something that made him drop his head into a hand, and Porthos rose to his feet and wrapped him in a bear hug that had every other man there laughing and cheering. Tréville smiled.

His children. His mad, brave, idiot children.

They’d already made their choice, whether Athos knew it or not.

*****

Athos stared at Tréville as if the Captain had lost his mind. “You c– You cannot … be serious!” he rasped thickly, eyes wide, face drained of color. The fingers clutching at his hat and clenched tightly about his sword hilt were marble white, his entire body gone rigid.

Tréville felt a surge of sympathy for him. For any man to think so little of himself, to hold so low an opinion of his own worth, was sad. For a man with Athos’ gifts, it was tragic. And baffling.

How could a man who saw others so clearly be so blind to his own qualities? What in the hell had happened to make Athos doubt himself so?

“Of course I’m serious,” he said at last, his quiet voice holding none of its customary bark. “You know how I feel about this regiment. I want only the best men in it, and the best of _them_ to lead it. And that is you.”

“But–” Athos swayed slightly, and for a moment it seemed he might actually drop to the floor. But he caught himself at the last minute and managed to stay upright. “I–”

“You are one of the finest soldiers I’ve had the privilege to command,” Tréville said quietly, leaning forward and resting his arms on his desk. “You’ve proven yourself countless times, most recently at La Rochelle. The men look up to you, listen to you. They _follow_ you, and I don’t have to tell you how rare it is for this lot to follow _anyone_. Your devotion to duty is well known, and I’ve lost count of the times you’ve kept Aramis and Porthos from getting themselves killed, along with a host of others. How many more qualities should I name?”

Athos blinked and shook his head slowly, dazedly. “I– I don’t– _Why?_ ” he asked in utter confusion, almost plaintively.

Tréville sighed and rose to his feet, moving around the desk to stand before the shaken man. “Because you’ve earned it,” he said gently, catching and holding that bewildered gaze with his own. “Because you _deserve_ it. You’ve proven time and again that you’re a true leader of men. You’ve held them together in battle, mourned with them in loss, celebrated with them in victory, and kept them from killing each other when there was no one else to fight. You’ve trained them and watched over them, and they know it. _They’ve_ already chosen you. I’m just making it official.”

Athos uttered a choked sound of disbelief and turned away, pacing restlessly about the office. “It certainly sounds impressive when you say it like that,” he said almost bitterly. “But you’ve made no mention of my weaknesses, or, more precisely, my _greatest_ weakness–”

“The drinking,” Tréville breathed, wincing. God knew he’d agonized over it enough. “I know. But I also know you’ve made great strides in controlling it.” He smiled wanly. “You’ve not turned up for palace duty reeking of a night in the taverns in two years. And I also know,” his smile faded, “that you have, more than once, spent your leave time sobering up, getting the drink out of your body. You may never entirely conquer the thirst, but at least you are fighting not to let it consume you.”

“But how can you know it _won’t_?” Athos demanded, turning sharply and fixing an accusing stare on him. “How can you entrust these men, _your_ men, to me, knowing that at any moment–”

“Because it hasn’t happened yet!” Tréville answered sharply. “It didn’t happen at Île de Ré, it didn’t happen at La Rochelle, and it hasn’t happened in any of the battles, skirmishes or debacles at court you’ve seen since joining the regiment! Oh, I know you still spend more time than is good for you in taverns, trying to drink away whatever it is that haunts you,” he said bluntly, wanting no illusions between them. “But it has never yet interfered with your duty, and I have faith enough in you to believe that it never will.”

“Then your faith is greater than mine,” Athos breathed.

Tréville strode across the room and stopped just before him, fixing a flint-hard stare upon him. “Answer one question,” he ordered. “Do you care about these men?”

Athos blinked, startled. “You know I do!”

“Do you care about this regiment?”

He seemed to come to himself then, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin. “You said one–”

“Just answer the damned question!” Tréville snapped.

Athos arched a brow at the sharp tone, but obliged him. “Of course I do. This life, these men, are all I have in the world. They are everything to me.”

Tréville smiled, his anger fading. So many men came to this life merely to escape another yet could never entirely make a place for themselves here. Athos, too, had been seeking an escape, but had taken to soldiering as one born to it. “Then give them the officer they deserve,” he said softly. “Give them an officer who will take care of them, and whom they can follow knowing he will protect them.”

Athos sighed and shook his head, then ran a hand through his hair. “You make it sound so simple–”

“It’s not,” Tréville said honestly. “You’ll lose sleep, forgo meals, agonize over your men, be forced to discipline them,” his voice softened, “bury them, and wish on an almost daily basis to kill them. But,” he smiled wryly, “sometimes, every now and then, they will make you proud, they will remind you why you love them, and it will be worth all the trouble.”

Athos exhaled slowly, deeply, then resumed his pacing. “The King–”

“Knows and is delighted by the prospect. He likes you.”

Athos turned sharply, startled again. “He does?”

Tréville lifted a brow and smiled slyly. “He’s intrigued by you. The humble Musketeer who speaks like a lord and carries himself like a prince.” His smile turned sly. “He also likes knowing you could probably kill his brother in a duel. _Not_ ,” he added pointedly, “that he muses much on Gaston’s death, of course.”

“Of course,” Athos agreed with a knowing smile.

“And then,” Tréville added, turning away and going back to his desk, “there’s the Cardinal.”

“Richelieu?”

Tréville sank down into his chair and sat back. “You know of another cardinal in Paris?”

“God forbid!” Athos breathed in horror, barely resisting the urge to cross himself. He frowned slightly and cocked his head to one side. “Does he approve of this?”

Tréville gave a short, sharp bark of laughter. “God, no! He turned as red as his cassock when I brought it up to the King and spent half an hour trying to talk him out of it.” He smirked. “He hates you.”

Athos straightened, one brow lifting. “Does he?”

“Well,” Tréville amended, “hate might be too strong a word. But he does dislike you. Thinks you’re too clever, too competent. And far too loyal to me.”

“So,” he began to pace again, frowning thoughtfully, “my saying yes would … displease him?”

“Immensely.” Tréville grinned, already relishing Richelieu’s reaction. “We should probably be able to hear his explosion of rage from here.” He decided to dangle yet another piece of bait. “He might even task some of his Red Guards with trying to kill you.”

Athos snorted softly. “And I would gladly send them back to him in pieces.”

Tréville dared to let himself hope. “So you’ll accept?”

Athos ceased pacing and bowed his head, silent for long moments. His shaggy hair fell forward and hid his face, so Tréville could see nothing of his expression, and his long fingers played idly with the brim of his hat. At long last, though, he straightened and turned to his Captain, drawing a deep breath.

“I will,” he said simply, quietly.

Tréville fought the urge to leap from his chair and race to embrace the man, knowing such would likely send him running from the room. Instead, he merely allowed his smile to take over his face and rose to his feet, going to Athos and gripping his shoulders firmly.

“I’m delighted,” he said ardently, emotion thickening his voice. “And proud. _Lieutenant._ ”

Athos bowed his head, seeming slightly overwhelmed by his Captain’s fervor. “I only hope I can continue to make you so,” he breathed.

“I’m certain you will.” Tréville released him, then turned to his desk and picked up a paper signed by the King and heavy with his seal. “Your commission,” he said, presenting the paper to Athos.

Athos took it as if he feared it might crumble in his grasp and stared down at it through slightly dazed eyes. “He– He has already–”

“I told you, he was delighted,” Tréville said with a smile and a shrug.

“Then I shall … endeavor not to disappoint him.” He stared down at the paper a moment longer, then looked up at Tréville. “But I’m not doing it for him,” he said softly. “Or even to displease the Cardinal.”

Tréville frowned. “Then why?”

Athos smiled slightly. “For you,” he said softly. “And in the hope that someday I truly will be the man you believe me to be.”

Tréville wisely said nothing.

In his heart, though, he knew that man already stood before him.


	4. D’Artagnan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tréville knows d’Artagnan could benefit from Athos' tutelage. He's also fairly certain d’Artagnan might actually be good for Athos.
> 
> Sometimes Athos hates Tréville.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Athos having to patiently explain things to d’Artagnan. What's not to love?

Athos stared at Tréville. “D’Artagnan.”

Tréville stared back. “D’Artagnan. Hot-headed Gascon farm boy, came rushing in here to kill you, ended up helping to save–”

“I know who he is!” Athos snapped. “And, as you said, he is a hot-headed, impetuous _child_ –”

“Who shows remarkable talent with the sword, as you well know, and who also was willing to put aside his desire for vengeance in the consideration that you might be innocent,” Tréville pointed out.

He’d been impressed by d’Artagnan. The boy had natural skill, yes, but there was something more, an indefinable quality of spirit that marked him as potential Musketeer material. Tréville could see it plainly. He was certain Athos would, too.

If only the man could get past his stubborn resistance to the very notion.

Then again, handling Athos had become one of Tréville’s specialties.

Athos clenched his teeth, seething. “ _Fine._ He is an admirable youth. The very _flower_ of French adolescence. But he is a _farm boy_ , with absolutely no experience of soldiering–”

“And that is why you will _train_ him,” Tréville said with forced patience. “It is why we train _all_ recruits. You know as well as I do that not everyone who comes here seeking a commission has experience, and many of them have grown into fine soldiers. Even _farm boys_.”

Athos huffed out a sharp, irritated breath and began to pace. “But why am _I_ to be saddled with him? There are other officers, and I already have Aramis and Porthos to keep alive and out of trouble. Why–”

Tréville bit back a curse, wishing that once, just once, this man would accept an order without question. _Just fucking once._

“Because,” he ground out, “I said so, I am your captain, and that makes it an order. And your proper response to any of my orders is–?”

Athos’ eyes burned, his mouth clamped hard into a grim line and his shoulders went rigid. After a long moment, though, he made a low, if somewhat mocking, bow, and rasped, “Yes, Captain.”

Tréville exhaled slowly, forcing aside his own irritation. “You are an officer,” he explained, willing patience upon himself. Nothing good came of backing Athos into corners. “More importantly, you are the best soldier in the regiment. D’Artagnan has true potential, but, as you said, he is rash. He needs to be tempered, taught to think before he acts, to consider the consequences of his actions. And I can think of no one better suited to teach him that than you.”

It all made perfect sense to him. Athos would certainly be a good influence upon d’Artagnan; the man had a talent for finding the strengths, the gifts, in others and bringing them to fruition. And who knew what influence the boy might have on Athos–

_Ah._

He shook his head as understanding dawned upon him. Even after all these years, Athos still clung tightly to his cool reserve, still insisted on erecting rigid barriers between himself and the world, between himself and his own heart. Aramis and Porthos had managed to break through those barriers, but only, Tréville knew, because they were as stubborn in their affection as Athos was in his aloofness. Athos might be stone, but Aramis and Porthos were water, and they had worn him down.

Now fire had entered into the mix, in the person of a brash youth from Gascony, and Tréville could only guess at the power that fire might have over his cool, untouchable lieutenant. And he suspected _Athos_ recognized that power in d’Artagnan, hence his resistance to taking the boy under his tutelage.

“Listen to me,” he urged more gently, deciding upon a more oblique approach. Just like Aramis and Porthos, _he’d_ learned how to breach those seemingly impenetrable barriers. “You know as well as I do that tensions between France and Spain are worsening. I pray that war will not come, but we must be prepared. France must be _strong_. And then there are tensions _within_ our borders. For every step Richelieu takes to strengthen the King, he makes enemies. Powerful and dangerous enemies whose plots, if successful, would plunge us into civil war. France needs soldiers, _good_ soldiers, to protect her. I believe d’Artagnan has it in him to be a good soldier, but only if he can be properly trained and tempered. And I am depending upon you to do that.”

He stopped just short of waving the word “duty” at Athos, but they both knew it was there. And they both knew how Athos would respond. How he _always_ responded, even if only grudgingly.

Like now.

“Very well,” he said tersely. “I shall do what I can. For _France_.” He speared Tréville with another glare. “May I go now?”

Tréville felt a sharp stab of uneasiness. It had been a good while since he’d had to drag Athos out of a tavern, but the past few days had to have played hell with the man’s nerves. And now to have d’Artagnan, who would only remind him of what he’d been through, foisted upon him–

“Where?” He was captain. He had a right to know his men’s whereabouts.

Athos arched a brow, as if able to read Tréville’s thoughts. Which he probably was. The man was frighteningly intuitive at times.

“I have palace duty in an hour,” he said stiffly, clearly insulted – and perhaps a bit hurt – at having to account for himself. “I should get ready.”

Tréville relaxed. Athos never drank before palace duty. “Of course. Dismissed.”

Athos bowed again, curtly, then turned on his heel and stalked out of the office, neck, shoulders and back so tight it was almost painful to look upon.

Knowing only too well what was about to happen, Tréville sighed and followed him to the door, catching it before Athos could slam it shut. He was not at all surprised to see Aramis and Porthos waiting outside, Aramis draped decorously over the railing, Porthos happily munching on an apple.

Aramis leapt nimbly down from the railing as the black cloud that was Athos swept by. “Well?” he prompted as he and Porthos fell in behind Athos and followed him to the stairs. _Les Inséparables._ “We’re not in trouble, are we? Honestly, that thing with the baron at Madame Angel’s was a piddling–”

Tréville shut out the rest of Aramis’ words. He truly _didn’t_ want to know.

“ _You_ are not in trouble,” he heard Athos drawl coldly. “I, however, seem to have acquired a _pet_.”

*****

Despite his initial irritation … anger … at Tréville for foisting d’Artagnan upon him, Athos had to admit that the boy had potential. The affair with Vadim had proved that. Certainly, he had natural talent as a swordsman and courage to spare, and showed promise as a soldier.

 _If_ he could only learn to curb that hot head of his and _follow goddamned orders._

“What the bloody _hell_ are you doing?” Athos spat as he dived behind the cover of a stone wall just as musket balls whipped through the air above his head.

“They’ve got hostages in there!” d’Artagnan hissed, raising his pistol and firing as one of the bandits showed himself. “Innocent people! We’ve got to get them out–”

“How?” Athos demanded, fury churning through him. Damn it, he’d had a _plan_! “There are eight of them, and only one of you. Aramis and Porthos will be here soon–”

“Two,” d’Artagnan corrected, ducking his head to reload his pistol.

“Pardon?” Athos prompted in confusion, making a mental note to work on the boy’s reloading. He was dreadfully slow.

“There are _two_ ,” d’Artagnan looked up and grinned brightly at Athos, “of _us_.” He peered over the wall, then raised his pistol and fired again. “And only _seven_ of them.”

Athos bowed his head and groaned.

Dear God, what had Tréville done to him?

*****

“I’m sorry.”

Athos stiffened and turned abruptly away from his horse at the unexpected voice behind him, his hand going instinctively to his sword and starting to draw. But at the sight of d’Artagnan standing in the doorway, he slid the blade home and turned back to his horse, trying to get his nerves under control.

Normally, the garrison was where he was the most relaxed, felt the most at ease. _Safe._ But after a week since their return from la Fère, he was still unsettled, still constantly on edge. He’d fallen back into old, and bad, habits, driving the men too hard in training in an attempt to exorcise his own demons, pulling away from those closest to him, spending his evenings alone in taverns or just in his room, seeking solace, forgetfulness, in a bottle.

She was alive. God in heaven, how was she _alive_?

He swallowed hard and resumed brushing his horse, trying not to see the tremors in his hands. Too little sleep, too many nightmares, too much wine–

“Sorry for what?” he asked, more sharply than he’d intended. But d’Artagnan had been on the receiving end of much of his temper lately, though through no fault of the boy’s own. _He_ hadn’t brought Anne back from the dead, hadn’t set fire to the house, certainly hadn’t intended to witness Athos’ weakness or learn the wretched tale of his past.

And the boy had saved his life, when _he_ hadn’t had the will to try.

“For … everything,” d’Artagnan said softly, coming further into the stables. “For what happened … back there.”

Athos stiffened, the brush faltering, but he didn’t turn around. _Couldn’t_ turn around, couldn’t face the pity, the contempt, he knew he’d see in those eyes. D’Artagnan had seen what he was, knew what he’d done, had learned the extent of his failure and the depth of his shame. He wasn’t entirely certain he could bear seeing himself damned in this boy’s eyes. 

“None of it was your doing,” he said curtly, coldly, the comte rising from the ashes of la Fère. “You do not owe me an apology.”

“No, I–” D’Artagnan stopped just behind him. “I wasn’t apologizing, I just … wanted to express my sympathy,” he said quietly. “For losing your brother. That … must have been terrible.”

Athos gasped and dropped the brush as something twisted brutally inside him. _Terrible._ God, that didn’t come _near_ what it had been. He collapsed against his horse, burying his face in the animal’s warm shoulder, just trying to _breathe_ around the hard and painful knot that had taken up permanent residence in his chest.

 _Terrible._ What a pitifully inadequate word for having his world, his _soul_ , ripped apart.

A tentative hand fell gently against his back, and he tried to shrug it away. It stubbornly remained in place.

God, it was Aramis and Porthos all over again.

“I know you don’t want to talk about it,” the boy went on, his voice soft and low and sad. “I wish you would, but I won’t push. I just wanted you to know how sorry I am that … that you had to relive all that. And that if you _do_ want to talk, I’m here.”

Athos drew a hard breath and forced himself upright, but still didn’t turn around. “Why?” he croaked. D’Artagnan didn’t seem the type to enjoy prodding at others’ wounds.

“You’ve listened to me talk about my father,” the boy said. “And it’s helped make his loss easier to bear. I thought I could return the favor.” He withdrew his hand from Athos’ back. “But it’s up to you. I won’t bring it up again, I promise. I just … wanted you to know, that’s all.”

“Thank you,” he said slowly, stiffly. “I’ll …think about it.” It wasn’t _entirely_ a lie. Someday he might actually be able to speak Thomas’ name aloud without feeling something within him tear.

“All right, then.” D’Artagnan paused, as if waiting for something, then sighed softly. “I’ll be out in the yard. We can get back to training when you’re ready.”

He started to answer, but stopped himself. He had no right to take out his pain on others, had no right to punish them for what he’d suffered. And it wasn’t d’Artagnan’s fault he’d seen what he had at la Fère.

“No.” He lifted his head and squared his shoulders, then made himself turn around. D’Artagnan stood there, young face solemn, dark eyes filled with sorrow. No judgment, no disappointment, just hurt. For _him_.

The knot inside him loosened.

“I think we’ve done enough for today,” he said quietly, feeling suddenly and utterly exhausted. “I think we could both use the afternoon off.”

D’Artagnan frowned. “Athos, I–”

“No.” He drew a deep breath, and was somewhat startled to realize that he _could_ breathe. After a week of feeling as if he were suffocating. “I’ve been pushing you too hard, punishing you, and,” he drew another breath, “that … _I_ … was wrong. Besides,” a sudden thought occurred to him, a way, perhaps, of expressing the appreciation he could never put into words, “we’ve got palace duty in the morning, and you’ll need to be well rested for that. I’ll want you attentive to every detail.”

The boy gasped and stiffened, his eyes widening. “You– You’re taking me along … on _palace duty_?” he breathed, awe dawning in his face. “To guard the _King_?”

A weak smile tugged at Athos’ lips. A few turns of duty watching the King pout, the Cardinal sneer and nobles prance about competing for the royal attention would cure that wonder. “It _is_ what we do,” he drawled pointedly. “So, please, make sure your clothes, face and hands are clean, and that you eat something. Fainting is a dreadful breach of etiquette.”

D’Artagnan grinned broadly, brilliantly, those expressive dark eyes shining with joy. “I won’t embarrass you, I promise! And I’ll pay attention to everything! You won’t regret this!”

He turned and raced out of the stables, giving a loud whoop and leaping into the air.

Athos smiled and shook his head at the boy’s excitement. For a moment, he was reminded of Thomas.

And, for that moment, it didn’t hurt.

*****

Athos sat at the table and watched as d’Artagnan sparred with Philippe, noting with approval his stance and footwork, then sighing and shaking his head as the boy again let his impatience lead him into another foolhardy attack. Philippe grinned, sidestepped and slapped his blade against d’Artagnan’s back.

In a fight, his opponent would have killed him.

“Again,” Athos called. “And, d’Artagnan, try not to die this time.”

The boy shot him a searing glare, which he merely returned with a cool smile and an elegant wave of one hand.

“How often do you think he goes to bed now wishing he had let the Cardinal kill you?” Aramis asked, dropping onto the bench at his side.

“Every night he goes to bed wishing me dead is another night he has lived to see,” Athos answered absently. “Goddamn it, d’Artagnan, he’s baiting you!” he called harshly, shooting to his feet as the boy started to fall into another trap. “ _Think!_ ”

“Abusin’ the recruits again?” Porthos accused jovially, joining Aramis on the bench.

“Just one recruit in particular,” Aramis answered as Athos continued to fume at d’Artagnan’s sloppiness. Or what _he_ perceived as sloppiness. At the moment, Philippe, a Musketeer of four years and an accomplished swordsman himself, had his hands full just trying not to die under d’Artagnan’s spirited attack. “Apparently our dear Athos is determined to make d’Artagnan his personal gift to French swordsmanship.”

Athos turned to glare at them. “Don’t you two have recruits of your own to abuse?”

“Nah.” Porthos grinned and stretched lazily. “Gave mine the afternoon off. Thought they could use a rest.”

“You mean take some time to see to their bruises and strained muscles,” Aramis quipped. When Athos turned that stare on him, he smiled sweetly. “Mine all managed to go a day without shooting anyone, so I sent them to Porthos as a reward.” He turned to the big man and lifted two brows. “I expect none of them will come to me concussed tomorrow? Throws off their aim terribly.”

Porthos laid a hand against his chest and bowed gallantly. “No concussions, I promise. A few sprains here and there, but nothin’ permanent.”

“You’re not supposed to break them, you know,” Athos reminded him.

“Says the man who regularly skewers them,” Aramis chided.

“I don’t–”

“Rambouillet,” Porthos and Aramis said in unison.

Athos uttered a hiss of disgust. “I only pricked him. And he’s lucky I stopped there. He was an insult to every ideal of chivalry.”

“You can’t hurt them just because you don’t like them,” Aramis said gently. “It makes the Captain angry.”

“I don’t– Oh, for the love of God!” he snapped as Philippe, misjudging d’Artagnan’s advance, managed somehow to barrel into the boy, tangling their legs and sending them both to the ground. He stalked toward them, drawing his sword and gesturing them to their feet with a curt wave.

Philippe would have slunk away, but Athos grabbed him by the shoulder, positioned the man’s arms and legs himself, did the same with d’Artagnan, and then engaged them both, instructing them as he fought.

“I’ve not ’ad to carry ’im out of a tavern in a month,” Porthos said in a low voice as he and Aramis watched the three men spar; or, rather, one man spar and two try to keep up. “It got bad again after la Fère, but ’e’s better now. Maybe even better than ’e was before that. ’E smiles a lot more easily now.” He grinned crookedly. “Sometimes ’e even almost laughs.”

“It’s d’Artagnan,” Aramis said, smiling as Athos lavished particular attention upon the boy’s technique. At one point, whatever he said had d’Artagnan laughing out loud and Athos smiling warmly in response. As he and Porthos watched, Athos gradually ceased teaching, cast off his role as stern officer, and simply gave in to the joy of fencing, leading d’Artagnan and Philippe in an ever more intricate dance around the yard. He looked _playful_. “He’s bringing back whatever it was Athos lost all those years ago. He’s good for him.”

“Yeah, he is. An’ I’m glad to see it.” He grinned and winked. “Maybe ’e’ll even start goin’ easier on the recruits, stop sendin’ to me with ’oles in ’em.”

Philippe hit the ground with Athos’ sword at his throat, while d’Artagnan was brought up short by the point of Athos’ poignard at his heart. Porthos winced and shook his head, while Aramis smiled and stretched his long legs out before him.

“One miracle at a time, my friend,” he said, reaching out to clap Porthos on the arm. “Even God treads lightly around Athos.”

*****

“Shouldn’t we be getting back to Paris?” d’Artagnan asked.

Athos, reclining against his saddle, looked up from the book he was reading and frowned slightly. “Should we?”

They had made camp in a wood outside Évreux, near a small stream. The weather was mild, a light breeze keeping the day’s heat from becoming uncomfortable, the trees offered good shade and the stream plenty of fish, and the flowers were in bloom. The nights were just cool enough to require a blanket, which made for good sleeping.

In short, Athos thought, all was perfect.

D’Artagnan heaved a loud sigh, tossed a small stick into the remains of the cooking fire, then shot to his feet and began pacing restlessly about the clearing.

Well, Athos amended, all was perfect except for _that_ – one very bored boy who hadn’t yet learned to appreciate this kind of respite.

He went back to his book.

“What’s wrong with him?” Aramis asked as he sank gracefully down onto the ground beside Athos. His hair and shirt were still damp from his time in the stream catching the fish they’d had for their noon meal, though at least he’d donned his breeches. His hat, boots and doublet remained where he’d left them on his bedding.

“He’s bored,” Athos drawled, turning the page. “Thinks we should be getting back to Paris.”

“Should we?” Aramis asked. He lay back, lacing his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes. “I like it here. It’s peaceful.”

“I’m goin’ for more firewood,” Porthos announced.

“Take d’Artagnan with you,” Athos called. “Perhaps he can shoot something for supper.”

“No, he can’t,” Aramis countered lazily. “Today’s Friday.”

Athos arched a brow. “So?”

“Heretic,” Aramis chided fondly. “No meat on Fridays.”

“Then perhaps I’ll just send him down to the stream to shoot some fish.”

“ _He_ is right here and can hear you,” d’Artagnan protested, ceasing his pacing long enough to glare at the older men. “And _he_ thinks we should be getting back to Paris. We’ve already been gone four days.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Porthos asked.

“Évreux is only a two-day ride from Paris!” d’Artagnan answered sharply.

Porthos shrugged easily. “So we’re just takin’ the long way.”

“We’re not taking _any_ way!” d’Artagnan cried. “We’re just _sitting_ here! Doing _nothing_!”

“I’m reading,” Athos said calmly.

“I went fishing earlier,” Aramis supplied. “And Porthos is collecting firewood.”

D’Artagnan uttered a sharp, choked cry of frustration and threw his hands into the air.

Athos sighed heavily and lowered his book. “You’re going to make me explain this to you again, aren’t you?” he asked. “Were you not paying attention the first time, or have you just forgotten?”

“Now, Athos, be nice,” Aramis chided. “You were young once, surely–” He broke off and opened his eyes, frowning up at Athos. “You _were_ young once, weren’t you? You haven’t always been so disgustingly competent and responsible?”

Athos arched a brow and glared down at him. “Perhaps I’ll just have d’Artagnan shoot _you_ and claim it as an accident.”

Aramis sat up abruptly, grinning broadly. “Tell me, what were you like as a boy? Were you wild, disobedient, disrespectful? Did you tease the girls, fight with the boys, pull naughty pranks? Did you ever get into trouble, or were you as dutiful and proper then as now, _monsieur le Comte_?”

Athos sighed again and rolled his eyes. Ever since the revelation of his true identity at la Fère, Aramis had teased him mercilessly about his title. Strangely, he didn’t mind nearly as much as he thought he should.

“Perhaps _I_ will just shoot you,” he muttered. “Tréville will understand.”

“I volunteer to take his body back,” d’Artagnan grumbled.

Athos bowed his head and closed his eyes, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “You can’t,” he said slowly. “We have to stay away from Paris for a few more days at least.”

“ _Why?_ ” d’Artagnan demanded, planting his hands on his hips. “We’re not doing _anything_ here! Why can’t we just go back–”

“Because we killed four Red Guards _in an illegal duel_ , and Tréville needs time to smooth that over!” Athos snapped, lifting his head to stare daggers at the boy. “Or have you forgotten that little escapade?”

Silence fell on the camp. D’Artagnan had the grace to look abashed, crossing his arms against his chest and dropping his gaze to the ground. Aramis shifted slightly and lifted his eyes to the sky, trying for innocence and failing. Porthos remained silent and started backing slowly, carefully toward the edge of the camp, only to stop when Athos’ glare caught him and pinned him in place. He grinned weakly and lifted a hand to scratch at the back of his neck.

“To be fair, they started it,” he reminded Athos. When Athos just continued to stare at him, he winced and shifted on his feet. “All right, yeah, maybe I shouldn’t ’ave cheated ’em at cards–”

“But he only started cheating _after_ they insulted the Captain,” Aramis put in smoothly.

“And _you_ ,” d’Artagnan added pointedly, lifting his head and fixing defiant eyes on Athos. “The things they said–”

“Were nothing I’ve not heard countless times already,” he sighed. Despite his best efforts to maintain his irritation, his voice gentled, as it always seemed to do with this boy. “D’Artagnan, I do not need you to fight my battles for me–”

“I won’t let them say such things about you in my presence!” the boy insisted hotly, all but vibrating in his fury. “I won’t let them get away with slandering you like that–”

“It’s not slander if it’s true,” he breathed, easily able to guess what the Guards had said about him. He’d come in on the fight only after it had started, but he’d killed one of the Guards and so was as guilty as the others. “Come here,” he called softly.

Aramis rose easily to his feet and gestured at Porthos. “Let’s go get the firewood,” he said quietly.

Athos cast him a grateful look, then patted the ground he’d just vacated. “Sit down, d’Artagnan. We need to talk.”

The boy scowled but did as he was bidden, coming forward and flopping onto the grass next to Athos. He crossed his long legs and laced his fingers together, staring down at them. “You didn’t hear what they said,” he muttered sullenly.

Athos smiled faintly. “Not that time, no,” he agreed. “But I’ve heard it often enough before.” He arched a brow. “I presume they mentioned that I might have a small drinking problem?”

“It’s not funny!” d’Artagnan snapped, lifting his head sharply. “They don’t know–”

“Peace, d’Artagnan,” Athos said gently, reaching out to lay a hand over the boy’s twined fingers. “I don’t care what they say about me, what they think about me. They’d hate me were I as sober as Richelieu himself. Just as they hate Aramis and Porthos and the Captain … and now you. Simply because we are Musketeers. Porthos didn’t start that fight by cheating, he started it simply by being there.”

D’Artagnan frowned and shook his head. “But why?” he asked, confusion chasing across his face. “We all serve the King. Why can’t–”

“ _We_ serve the King,” Athos interrupted coldly. “ _They_ serve the Cardinal. They are _his_ force, _his_ arm. After the King commissioned Tréville to establish the Musketeers, Richelieu decided he wanted his own regiment and founded the Red Guards. But,” he smiled fondly, “Tréville, because of his own reputation, always managed to recruit the better men. He seeks out those who would only bring honor to the King, to France. Richelieu,” try as he might, he couldn’t keep the contempt from his voice, “is less … discriminating. Many of his men are little better than bandits or assassins.”

“Like Gaudet and his men,” d’Artagnan said softly, pain stealing into his voice.

Athos nodded and squeezed the boy’s hand. “Exactly. The men who killed your father did it for no better reason than to taint the Musketeers by painting me as a murderer. And they did it because _Richelieu_ ordered it. We are, perhaps, the one thing in France he cannot control, and he hates that. So he will take every chance he can to strike at us, even if he has to manufacture that chance himself.”

D’Artagnan suddenly winced. “And we only help him when we kill his men,” he breathed, comprehension dawning upon him.

“Well,” Athos smiled thinly, “we certainly don’t help ourselves. Or Tréville.”

“He means a great deal to you, doesn’t he?” the boy asked, looking up at him.

Athos was silent for long moments. He honestly had no words to explain _what_ the man meant to him. What he’d _done_ for him. “He gave me more of a chance than I deserved,” he said at last. “In all likelihood he saved my life. More importantly, he gave my life a purpose.”

“Like he’s giving me now,” d’Artagnan breathed. “When my father died, all I wanted was revenge. I couldn’t think of anything else.”

“I remember,” Athos said, smiling. “You weren’t exactly rational that day.”

“You didn’t kill me, though.” He frowned, those dark eyes fixed on him, staring into him. “I know you well enough now to know you could have, at any moment. But you didn’t. You knew I wanted to kill you, you knew I would’ve killed you … but you didn’t kill me. Why?”

Athos sighed, studying the boy beside him now and remembering so clearly the one who’d come charging into the garrison that day. “Perhaps because I don’t believe in slaughtering grieving children,” he said softly. “Perhaps because I recognized the kind of pain you were carrying that day and knew you weren’t in your right mind.” He shrugged slightly. “Killing you would only have been cruel, and I abhor cruelty.”

“I reminded you of yourself,” d’Artagnan said softly.

As ever, the boy’s simple yet profound understanding of him took him by surprise, touched something deep within him, something he’d long thought cold and dead, and brought it to life.

He _had_ seen himself in d’Artagnan’s eyes that day, seen himself in the boy’s grief and rage and madness, in his complete lack of concern for his own life. D’Artagnan had been in pain, and had only wanted the pain to stop. Athos understood that only too well.

“I suppose so, yes,” he rasped at last. “And I didn’t want you making the same mistakes I did. If you had killed me, your father would still have been dead, and you would have killed an innocent man for nothing. If I had killed you, your father would still have been dead, and _I_ would have killed an innocent man for nothing. ” He dropped his gaze from the boy’s face and slowly shook his head. “Killing doesn’t bring back the dead, and we can’t wash away blood with more blood. Sometimes all we can do is live, and hope the dead understand.”

“Or,” d’Artagnan reached out and laid a hand on Athos’ shoulder, smiling slightly when Athos raised his eyes to meet his, “we can live our lives in a way to honor their memories, and help others around us do the same.”

Athos gazed into those eyes, saw in them all that this boy was teaching _him_ , and allowed himself to smile. “Yes,” he said softly, “I suppose we can do that as well.”

*****

“I don’t understand it,” d’Artagnan muttered, staring down into his cup, his arms folded on the table.

“Don’t understand what?” Athos asked, raising his own cup to take a drink.

They were in the garrison mess, alone. After returning from helping them reunite Agnes and her infant son, Constance had wanted only to go home, alone, wrapped in thoughts of the child she would likely never have, and Porthos had taken Aramis out to drink away _his_ melancholy. Athos had no idea what old hurts, regrets or memories all this had stirred in his usually irrepressible friend, but some sorrow was darkening Aramis’ spirit. He would have to talk to him about it later.

For now, though, there was d’Artagnan.

“How could she plot to depose, to _kill_ , her own son?” the boy asked in utter confusion. “She’s his _mother_ , for God’s sake! And he is her _King_! You’d think she of _all_ people would be loyal!”

Athos snorted softly. “Marie de Medici is _intensely_ loyal,” he said. “To Marie de Medici.” He set his cup down and regarded the boy across the table from him almost wistfully, half envying d’Artagnan his youthful naïveté even though he knew continued exposure to court life and politics would eventually kill it. “Power is the greatest drug known to man,” he sighed. “Marie had the kind of power for seven years that few of us dare even dream of.” He shrugged. “She clearly never lost her taste for it, and would sacrifice anyone, even her own son, to have it again.”

“Unlike Agnes,” d’Artagnan said sadly, “who would sacrifice anything, _everything_ , just to keep _her_ son safe.”

Athos huffed sharply. “Marie is _nothing_ like Agnes,” he said harshly, contempt filling him at the thought of the bitter, treacherous woman who would’ve plunged France into civil war just to achieve her own ambitions. “Or even your Constance. There is more nobility to be found in a drop of their common blood than in the whole of Marie’s royal body. Or in the bodies of most of the nobility of France.”

D’Artagnan frowned slightly and canted his head to one side, regarding him through puzzled eyes. “You don’t think much of the nobility, do you?” he asked quietly. “And yet you’re–”

“I know what I am,” Athos said curtly. “What I was. And, no, as a whole I do not care for those of my … class.” He raised his cup and drank deeply, trying to wash away his distaste in wine. And failing. He swallowed and lowered his cup again, exhaling sharply. “I have seen far too much selfishness, stupidity and cruelty among those of my class to believe that noble birth is any guarantee of actual _nobility_ ,” he said quietly, coldly. “I have seen arrogance and greed and guile enough to ruin forever any notion that we are in any way _better_ than you or Aramis or Porthos, who came from nothing and yet is one of the finest men I have ever known.”

“But there’s you,” d’Artagnan said, gazing at him with something very near hero-worship. “The nobility can’t be all bad if it produced you.”

Athos chuckled shortly. “Oh, yes, I’m a shining example,” he said bitterly, intimately aware of his own inadequacies. “A drunkard who married badly, failed his family, fled his responsibilities–”

He stopped abruptly, startled when d’Artagnan’s hand shot across the table and clamped firmly about his own. Inhaling sharply, he looked up to see those eyes, those dark and all-seeing eyes, again fixed intently upon him.

“That’s not who you are,” d’Artagnan said quietly but firmly, “and you know it. I won’t say you haven’t made mistakes – I don’t know a man who hasn’t – but you’re not the man you’ve just described. At least,” he smiled slightly, “not any more.”

Athos looked down at the hand gripping his, wondering when, exactly, this boy’s opinion of him, belief in him, had come to mean so much. He’d fought so hard when Tréville had first put him in charge of d’Artagnan’s training, had sworn he didn’t need another aggravation in his life. Now he couldn’t imagine his life without this particular aggravation in it.

Tréville had charged him with making d’Artagnan a good soldier, a good Musketeer. Little had the Captain known that d’Artagnan would make him a good, or at least a better, man.

Or … had he?

He raised his eyes slowly back to d’Artagnan’s, never bothering to try to remove his hand from the boy’s grasp. Never _wanting_ to, if he were honest. “Then who, exactly, am I?” he rasped, half dreading the answer.

But d’Artagnan smiled warmly, those long, strong fingers tightening about his own. “You’re my friend,” he said, his voice carrying a world of conviction. Of _faith_. “You’re my teacher, and my brother. And, I think, the man my father would have been very glad for me to learn from if I couldn’t learn from him.”

Athos had no idea what to say to that. But he made a silent vow to do all he could to help Alexandre d’Artagnan's son become the man he was destined to be.

*****

The challenge was done, and the King had declared the Musketeer regiment the victors. Though, in truth, Athos didn’t particularly care about that just now.

Le Barge was dead.

Tréville was alive.

 _D’Artagnan_ was alive.

He could breathe again.

The boy had fought brilliantly, defending his captain, his regiment and himself, and avenging the people of Gascony. All without losing his head, without giving in to the anger and the hatred Athos knew still churned within him.

D’Artagnan was learning.

And now the King was approaching him, commending him.

From the corner of his eye he saw the piece of leather cradled in Aramis’ hands, but did not let himself look at it. Didn’t need to. He knew well enough what it looked like. He, Aramis and Porthos had devoted long hours to considering its design before finally commissioning its creation in a leap of faith that had seemed more an act of certainty. D’Artagnan _would_ become a Musketeer. If he didn’t deserve it, no one did.

Athos’ heart seized in his breast as the King commanded the boy to kneel, and his breath solidified in his chest. He knew what was coming, wanted to shout in jubilation and weep for joy.

Instead, he could only summon the words to prod a stunned d’Artagnan into proper action.

“Get on your knees before he changes his mind!”

The King drew his sword and, for a moment, the world stopped, every moment, every detail, etching itself in sharp relief onto his memory. This was one of those days, one of those very rare and most precious days, when life worked as it should, when the just and the true and the _good_ got the reward they deserved.

He had almost stopped believing in such days.

He watched the sword descending against d’Artagnan’s shoulder, saw the boy’s head bow and heard the King speaking–

And felt a piece of leather being slipped into his hand.

He looked sharply at Aramis, who only smiled gently at him and shrugged.

“Who else should it be but you?”

Athos could have named a host of other men … and realized he would have killed any of them, all of them, had they tried to take this from him.

He wanted to do this _desperately_.

He had no other way of showing d’Artagnan how proud he was, would never be able to dredge up the words to express how much this moment meant.

The boy had suffered so much, endured so much, lost so much. But he’d learned so much, grown so much, worked so hard it made Athos ache just to think of it. He’d come to them a headstrong, rash, unthinking boy almost wild with grief and rage and ready to slaughter anyone who stood against him. Ready to slaughter _him_ for a crime he’d not committed. And while he’d always be hot-headed and stubborn – Athos felt himself aging just thinking about the years ahead to be spent reining in Aramis, Porthos _and_ d’Artagnan – he’d learned to temper his heart (somewhat) by relying more on his head (sometimes). The boy had grown into a man.

And he was now a Musketeer.

He stepped forward and with reverential hands placed the pauldron, still stiff, still unmarked by combat, onto the boy’s arm and slid it up to rest at his shoulder. As he did, he felt the same shiver go through d’Artagnan that had chased through his body when Tréville had done this for him–

He swallowed hard and looked up, his eyes meeting his Captain’s over the boy’s bowed head. He’d told Tréville that d’Artagnan had the potential to be the greatest of them all.

Part of him suspected, though, that the man across from him already filled that role.


	5. Into These Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos is certain he's not fit to be captain. Tréville, as always, knows otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yes, spoilers for S3. But I just needed a passing of the torch scene.
> 
> And, seriously, it was _so. hard._ for me not to title this “O Captain, My Captain.” Consider yourselves lucky.

Athos stepped into the captain’s office and stood almost dazedly halfway between the door and the desk. Outside, the garrison was still in an uproar, and he needed just a few moments of quiet and calm.

_Dear God …_

Tréville had called the regiment into assembly and given the men the news: war declared upon Spain, himself named by the King to be Minister of War–

The men had reacted to that with a mixture of pride and grief. Pride that the man they respected and admired, _loved_ , above all others had finally been lifted out of his undeserved disgrace and elevated to a position befitting one of his character and talents, but grief that they were losing a beloved commander, a beloved _father_. Tréville had chosen them, had defended them, protected them, fought for them. It was only natural that they should feel bereaved.

Tréville had seemed to understand (of course he had; whatever else they were – men, soldiers, troublemakers, bickering and bloody-minded children – they were _his_ bloody-minded children, _his_ men, and he loved them as fiercely as they loved him) and had been quick to console them.

_I am not leaving you orphans in the oncoming storm. I must do my duty to France as my King commands, but I have not forgotten nor forsaken my duty to you. You will need a captain who will lead you with love, honor and strength, as I have always tried to do, and whose courage it will be your challenge to emulate. And for that, I give you one already known to you, already loved by you. I give you Captain Olivier d’Athos, known to you all as your comrade Athos, and pray you follow him as well and as faithfully as you have always followed me._

The roar had been immediate and deafening. They had _cheered_. God in heaven, they had shouted as if trying to bring down the walls with their joy–

For _him._

And at the forefront, cheering louder than anyone, had been Porthos, the big man’s pride and _delight_ almost blinding him.

Or maybe that had been the tears …

Tréville had dismissed them, and he’d been immediately surrounded, caught up in such a press of honest and open affection that he’d almost forgotten how to breathe. Finally, Porthos had seen his near-panic and rescued him, extricating him from the crowd and making certain he was all right before wrapping him in a massive hug that, for all its crushing ferocity, had somehow steadied and strengthened him.

But that had ever been Porthos’ gift, hadn’t it? The hands that could so easily break a body could just as easily soothe a battered soul.

The big man had then dived back into the crowd and led the men to Tréville, allowing him to seek some place where he could make his peace with this day. Hardly knowing what he did, led more by instinct than effort, he had ended up _here_ , in this office, where so many of the most momentous decisions of his life had been made.

Except that, in the past, Tréville had always been here to help him make those decisions, to guide him … and, yes, sometimes push him. But now Tréville was leaving.

The world, _his_ world, was changing.

Aramis had left. And he understood, he _did_ , but, God, he didn’t know how he’d learn to cope with that gaping hole in his life. How he’d get through the dark days to come without Aramis’ light and laughter to brighten his way.

D’Artagnan was a grown man, no longer the boy in need of guidance, and married. To Constance. He rejoiced for them, couldn’t think of two people who deserved happiness more, but couldn’t help feeling that something fundamental in his world had shifted _there_ as well.

And then there was Anne – God in heaven, there was _always_ Anne – waiting at the crossroads for him … and didn’t that just sum them up perfectly? The two of them _always_ at a crossroads, _always_ managing to take the wrong road–

He exhaled unsteadily and bowed his head, burying his face in his hands. What was he supposed to do? He knew what he _wanted_ to do, knew what his heart _cried_ for him to do. He loved her. He always had and always would. They’d broken each other in so many ways, torn each other open and left each other’s souls to bleed out … and yet, somehow, their only hope for peace lay in each other.

_I am bound to you, as you are to me._

She was waiting for him now. And he wanted desperately to go to her, to be with her … if only to tell her that he wouldn’t be going to England. _Couldn’t_ go. War was coming, and France needed him. He wanted to ask her, _beg_ her, to wait for him, though he knew he had no right. She deserved a chance at a life, and if she truly believed that chance could only be found in England–

_We all have our duty, Athos._

Duty. God, how he was starting to hate that word–

“I suppose this is your office now.”

The quiet voice behind him startled him badly and he whirled toward it, his sword out of its scabbard and raised before he recognized the intruder. He stared for long moments, blinking himself into awareness, then exhaled sharply and sheathed his sword.

“Capt– _Minister_ ,” he corrected himself, then managed a small, weak smile. “That’s going to take some getting used to.”

“More than your own new rank, _Captain_?” Tréville teased.

Athos loosed another harsh breath and turned away, raking a hand through his hair and pacing about the office. “I still don’t understand how you could choose me,” he breathed, the full weight of it threatening to crash down on him again.

“No,” Tréville said softly, sadly, “you never do. No matter how many times I explain it to you. But you heard the men. They have no doubts, even if you do.”

“They are good men.” He continued to pace, but kept carefully away from the desk, away from the responsibility it signified. “They deserve only the best in a captain.”

“Which is why I chose you.” Tréville went to the desk, but only to perch on its edge, as if recognizing that it was no longer his, and watched the man pacing before him through kind eyes. “Why must we always do this, Athos?” he asked. “Why can you never accept what to the rest of us is so plain?”

He stopped pacing and turned to the man who had ever been as much a father to him as his own had been, but who had seen in him those dark things he was thankful his true father never had.

“Aramis once told me,” he rasped, his voice breaking helplessly on his absent friend’s name, “that the hardest part of accepting God’s forgiveness is learning to forgive ourselves.” He exhaled unsteadily and shook his head. “Perhaps I … simply have not learned that yet. My sins are … always before me and … they blind me to anything else.”

Those sins flashed before him now – Anne, Thomas, Catherine; Bertrand and Jeanne and the people of Pinon who’d suffered because he’d abandoned them; even Aramis, whose desire for the Queen he’d failed to see before it was too late; and so many others over the years, people who’d died or suffered because he’d been blind or weak or too lost in his own pain to notice anyone else’s.

Dear God, just how many people _had_ he failed in the course of his life?

“Surely no more than anyone else,” Tréville said softly “And certainly no more than I.”

Athos stared at him, startled, then winced and looked away when he realized he’d asked the question aloud.

But Tréville wasn’t going to let it go. Of course. “You don’t really believe that perfection is a quality required in command, do you? Or is it only yourself you hold to that impossible standard?”

Athos stiffened, instinctively on guard. “I do not expect–”

“You know the truth about my part in Savoy,” Tréville continued, ignoring him, “about my part in what happened to Aramis. You know what I did to Porthos and his mother. I could have cost d’Artagnan his chance for a commission. You saw the damage I caused to myself through my arrogant disdain for politics. Through my _pride_. I considered myself better than the politicians, better than Richelieu, and threw the King’s plea for help in his face. Because of me, _Rochefort_ was able to get close to the King. I have made mistake after mistake, have let down or failed countless people in my life, have caused more harm than I can bear to think about.” He arched a brow and crossed his arms against his chest. “Have I been, all these years, unfit to lead these men?”

“Of course not!” Athos answered harshly, horror sweeping through him at the very thought. “You’ve been the finest commander we could ever have asked for! Yes, you’ve made mistakes, but even so–”

“Even so,” Tréville repeatedly softly.

And that quiet, patient understanding was suddenly too much for Athos. Goddamn it, didn’t the man _understand_? “Yes, you’ve made mistakes!” he snarled. “But at least you are not a drunkard!” He flung out an arm toward the door, to the men beyond it. “Would you have them, _your_ men, for they will always be your men, led by one who crawls blindly into a bottle when the world grows too hard? Would you trust _their_ lives to hands that _shake_ when the thirst becomes too much? How can you trust me to command them when I cannot even _command myself_?”

Tréville exhaled slowly, deeply, but his patience never faltered. As it never had, Athos realized, through all the years of their friendship. As, he began to suspect, it never would.

What in his life had he ever done to earn this man’s respect, his _care_?

“When was the last time,” Tréville asked softly, “you got that drunk? When was the last time you got so drunk you had to be dragged out of the tavern, carried to your room and put to bed? When was the last time you got so drunk that you woke with no memory of the night before? When was the last time you got so drunk that your friends had to make ridiculous excuses for your inability to perform your duties?”

He opened his mouth to answer, only to realize that no answer came immediately to him. He still drank, yes – he wasn’t stupid enough to believe he would ever truly stop – but he hadn’t gotten blind, stinking, helplessly drunk since … since–

“Emilie,” answered at last, almost defiantly.

Tréville frowned thoughtfully. “Right. When you discovered your wife had become the King’s mistress, had to help a girl through her dependence on the drug her _mother_ had been feeding her, and learned I’d lost my commission because we chose to help that girl rather than kill her.”

Athos’ lips twitched in sardonic humor. “It wasn’t one of my better days,” he drawled wryly.

“Not one of mine, either,” Tréville breathed. “But,” he frowned again, tipping his head slightly to one side, “as I recall, you got drunk, yes, but not in a tavern. _Here_. In this office. And,” he smiled faintly, “there was someone with you. Someone who got even drunker than you. Much, _much_ drunker. And you were at my desk, doing my paperwork, when I woke the next morning. So,” his smile grew, “not one of your _worst_ days, either.”

Athos made a sharp sound of dismissal. “I’ve still had more bad days than good.”

“Perhaps,” Tréville agreed, “but not lately. Not in at least a couple of years. Oh, yes, you’ve stumbled,” he added as Athos started to protest, “but you’ve not _stayed_ there.” He shook his head. “You really don’t see it, do you?” he asked in surprise. “Somewhere over the past two years, you’ve gotten so much in the habit of taking care of others that you’ve started taking care of yourself out of necessity. You couldn’t look after d’Artagnan if you were too drunk. You couldn’t protect Aramis if you were too drunk. You couldn’t keep an eye on Rochefort or help me or serve the King or watch over Porthos or the men of this regiment if you were too drunk. You couldn’t do your _duty_ if you were too drunk. And so, somewhere along the line, you simply stopped getting that drunk. Because these men, _your_ men, your _friends_ , were more important to you than your desire to drown yourself in wine. Your need to take care of them was more powerful than your thirst.”

Athos stared at him for long moments, wondering if it really could be that simple. He hesitated to believe it – _nothing_ in life was that simple – but couldn’t deny the truth in Tréville’s words. He’d had bad days recently – Emilie, being dragged back to la Fère – but those _bad_ days had been nothing like his _worst_ days. And those terrible days were well in his past.

If only he could keep them there.

He shook his head and resumed his pacing. “It sounds good,” he breathed. “But you and I both know what is coming. War will bring the kinds of stress I’ve not known since La Rochelle. And command will bring its own … difficulties. I will have to answer to stupid, careless, incompetent men – and we both know I am not particularly good at that – and I will have to send men, _good_ men, men I have sworn to protect, to their deaths.” He turned back to Tréville and stared pleadingly at him, desperately seeking reassurance from the man he trusted above all others. “How can I be certain,” he asked in a choked whisper, “that I will not fail them? And how will I ever live with myself if I do?”

Tréville slipped off the desk and went to him, stopping just before him and reaching out, setting both hands on his shoulders and gazing intently into his eyes. “You will not fail them,” he said quietly, firmly, no doubt in his voice or eyes. “I know you, Olivier d’Athos de la Fère. I know the man you were and the man you have become. I have watched you over the past five years, I have seen your struggles and your victories, and I have seen you claw your way out of a darkness that would have killed most men. Yes, sometimes you still stumble.” He smiled crookedly. “Don’t we all? But each time you fall, you get up again. That is where true strength, true _greatness_ , lies. That is why I have no doubt about naming you captain, why I will gladly place the lives of the men I love above all others into your hands. Because you have that greatness in you.”

Athos swallowed, unable to speak. He knew what he _wanted_ to say, that Tréville was wrong, that he _had_ to be wrong, that Athos was nothing like the man he’d just described. But those words wouldn’t come. They were quashed by and buried beneath the trust, the _faith_ , he saw in the blue eyes staring so intently at him. He would never in all his life understand how he’d won that faith from this man, but he would gladly spend the rest of that life doing all he could to keep it.

He smiled slightly, but it was a true smile, and lifted a hand to clasp Tréville’s arm tightly. “Thank you, _Captain_ ,” he breathed, infusing that one word with all he felt for this man. “I will do my best to make you proud.”

Tréville smiled warmly, then pulled Athos to him in a close embrace. “You already have,” he rasped. “In more ways than you could ever know.”

Athos stiffened a moment, startled, then cast aside his natural reticence and returned that embrace warmly, feeling, for now anyway, the weight of his doubts and darkness fall away.

Tréville patted him firmly on the back and then pulled away, regarding him fondly. “See to your men, _Captain_ ,” he ordered quietly. “We’ve a long war ahead of us, and a short time to prepare. And I expect His Majesty’s Musketeers to show the world the glory and honor of France.”

Athos nodded and stepped away, feeling strangely bereft. But when Tréville smiled faintly and winked, he lifted his head, squared his shoulders, and strode out of the office – _his_ office – to take up his new duties.

Aramis was still gone, and he had no idea how he would learn to live with that.

Anne still waited, and his heart quailed at the potential for fresh torment there.

He could imagine so many ways the darkness would reach out to him and drag him down again.

He made his way down the stairs, was immediately surrounded by men offering congratulations and asking questions, and, with an instinctive ease, began issuing orders.

_We all have our duty, Athos._

Or maybe, just maybe, the man who’d reached into the darkness five years ago and grabbed his hand had been showing him the way out of it all along.


	6. A Friend in Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tréville is the one in need now. And Athos is there for the man who’s always been there for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a tag to “Emilie.” That one where Louis broke Tréville. Grrr.

_I have been relieved of my command. I am no longer your captain._

Tréville’s words had fallen like a bomb into their midst, destroying whatever relief they had felt over the relatively peaceful dispersal of Emilie’s army. Nothing could have prepared them for that; the very idea was unimaginable. The man was as much a symbol of the Musketeers as their pauldrons and blue cloaks.

Yet possibly even worse than the news itself had been the raw _anguish_ in his voice and face as he had broken it. Something vital in the man been deeply wounded, some essential part of him torn away. And the four men who had been the first Musketeers to hear the news had been deeply wounded as well.

Even now, after having heard it again with the rest of their brothers, with the sun going down on a stunned and silent garrison, they still couldn’t quite believe it. Couldn’t quite _comprehend_ it. Couldn’t comprehend the regiment _without_ Captain Jean-Armand du Peyrer de Tréville in command. They were sitting at the table in the garrison yard, the bottle of wine between them virtually untouched. Their faces were drawn, shoulders slumped, backs bowed.

“It’s that bastard Rochefort’s doin’, I’d wager on it,” Porthos growled, anger flashing in his eyes. “Somehow ’e managed to fix the blame for this mess with Emilie on the Captain. Man’s got a dangerous grip on the King.”

“What were we supposed to do, kill her?” d’Artagnan demanded, frustration heavy in his voice. “She was a victim of her mother’s schemes! And if we _had_ killed her–”

“Paris would be in flames now,” Aramis said softly. “Her army would have proclaimed her a martyr and marched on the Louvre. The King would have been forced to wage war on his own people.”

“Which Rochefort would’ve found some way to turn to ’is advantage,” Porthos muttered. “Prob’ly would’ve gotten ’imself named general of the royal armies–”

“And then disbanded the Musketeers,” d’Artagnan sighed. “I think he hates us more than Richelieu did.”

“You’re very quiet,” Aramis put in, looking at Athos. “Even for you.”

“Hm?” He frowned slightly and dragged his attention to his brothers. He’d been half listening to them, but staring up at the balcony above them, at the place where their captain so often stood. Now, though, that space was vacant, the man behind the closed door of his office, where he’d shuttered himself away after addressing his … the … regiment. He still couldn’t forget the pain he’d seen in Tréville when the man had told them, wasn’t certain he’d ever forget it.

It had been like watching a man bleeding to death before him.

His three brothers were still staring at him, probably waiting for him to come up with some brilliant plan, some devious counter-stroke. Unfortunately, he had none to offer.

“Yes,” he sighed, “it was undoubtedly Rochefort’s doing. And there is nothing we can do about it.” He rose to his feet and grabbed the bottle off the table. “Excuse me.” Without another word, he turned and started toward the stairs.

“Athos,” d’Artagnan called, “what–”

“Let him go, lad,” Aramis shushed him. “The Captain needs him more than we do.”

Athos smiled sadly at Aramis’ words. _The Captain._ Rochefort could scheme and the King could decree all they wished, but Tréville would never be anything except “the Captain” to the men who loved him.

God help the unfortunate man chosen to replace him …

He climbed the stairs to the balcony with heavy steps. He had absolutely no idea what he’d say to Tréville, what solace he could possibly offer a man who’d just had his entire world ripped from him. He’d known that kind of pain himself and couldn’t imagine _any_ words that could have made it easier to bear.

He had a vague memory of cursing and perhaps even threatening the priest who’d tried …

On the balcony, he hesitated outside Tréville’s door, but continued on to his own room. Once there, he went straight to the cabinet whose contents had ever been his brothers’ despair and pulled out several bottles to add to the one he’d brought from the table. It wouldn’t solve anything, he knew, but it would ease the pain at least for a while. And sometimes that was all a man could ask.

He took the bottles back to Tréville’s office – trying to ignore the disapproval he could _feel_ aimed at him from the men below – and knocked quietly on the door. Hearing no answer, he simply opened the door and walked in.

Tréville stood at his desk, back to the door, hands braced on the desk, his bowed head drooping between his slumping shoulders. Pain bled from every line of his body.

Athos closed the door behind him and went to the desk, setting the bottles down. Without a word, he went to Tréville’s cabinet, found the hidden key easily and opened it, removed two cups – and another bottle – and returned to the desk.

“How long have you known where I keep that key?” Tréville asked, never raising his head or his gaze. His voice was thick, raspy, as if just speaking were an effort.

Athos poured two cups of wine and set one before his Captain. His _friend_. “Since about two weeks after you hired me to train the men,” he said. A faint, wry smile tugged at his lips. “I’d had a _very_ bad night, and you needed to calm me down.”

“All these years,” Tréville rasped, still not looking at him, “and you never drank me dry.”

He shrugged and lifted his cup. “I am capable of _some_ restraint,” he drawled. “And it seemed wiser not to take advantage.” He drank sparingly, suspecting this would become one of those very long nights. “Is there anything I can do?” he asked softly.

Tréville exhaled in a hard, choking gasp. “Kill Rochefort?”

Athos drank again, actually considering it. The idea certainly had personal appeal, and even some tactical merit, but none strategically. “The moment it becomes helpful,” he promised.

Tréville picked up his cup and drank deeply, then looked at Athos in surprise. “This is my good wine.”

He shrugged again. “Drink the good wine early, while you can still taste it, and save the bad for when you’re drunk and it no longer matters. Then nothing is wasted.”

“I suppose you’d know.”

Athos took the barb without offense. Tréville was in pain and lashing out blindly. He knew that compulsion all too well.

To his credit, though, the man seemed to realize he would not be pleasant company. “You don’t have to stay,” he rasped. “You’ve done your duty. Just leave the bottles and you can go.”

But Athos knew _this_ tactic as well. Hell, he knew _all_ of them. He’d _perfected_ them.

“Yes, well, there are three men downstairs who’ve taught me that leaving a friend to drink and wallow in despair alone is the height of irresponsibility.” He arched a brow. “And one up here who’s taught me that not even the most hopeless soul is to be abandoned. So I’m afraid,” he drank again, savoring the rich taste of the wine, “you are condemned to suffer my company for the evening.”

Tréville turned to face him fully, staring at him through tortured eyes. “Why are you doing this?” he asked harshly. “Why not just leave me and go downstairs and speculate with the others about who will replace me?”

Athos took a moment, disciplining his own tongue, refusing to let the man bait him into an argument. The complete reversal of their familiar roles was not lost upon him.

“I’m doing this because you are my friend,” he said softly, “and because, God knows, you’ve done it often enough for me. You were the first one, after _my_ world ended, who cared enough to try and save me. Who even thought there might be something worth saving.” His throat tightened at that, at the thought of what this man had done for him. “You gave me back my life, my honor,” he said thickly, “and if I had to eat broken glass to repay you, I would gladly do it.”

Tréville rocked back on his heels, clearly unprepared for such words. “Athos–”

But he wasn’t finished. “And as for anyone speculating about who might _replace_ you,” he went on, unable to keep the bite from his words, “there is a regiment of men downstairs trying to decide how best to storm the palace and demand your reinstatement. I have seen men _weeping_ this day because they fear they have lost their father, and, I swear to God, if Louis sent _anyone_ to replace you just now, the poor bastard would be drawn and quartered!”

And his would be the sword doing the drawing …

Tréville’s anger crumbled at that, leaving only hurt in its wake. He shuddered and almost dropped his cup, setting it on the desk at the last moment, and bowed his head, his entire body caving in on itself. “He took my regiment,” he whispered brokenly. “The bastard took my regiment from me!”

Athos set down his own cup and reached out, taking the broken man in his arms and leading him to a chair. He eased Tréville down and knelt before him, holding the man’s hands in his own. “Louis is a weak, capricious child,” he said, knowing his words edged dangerously near treason but not caring. “He is petulant and suspicious, but he is not your enemy. _Rochefort_ is, and he is behind this. He hates you because he fears you, fears your loyalty to the King. He needs you out of the way so that he can strengthen his hold upon the King and further his own aims. But know this.” He clasped Tréville’s hands tightly, pouring every bit of his regard for this man into his grip. “Your men love you. We will always love you. And nothing – no decree from the King, no plot by Rochefort – will ever, _ever_ take us from you.”

Tréville stared down at him, hopelessness, _brokenness_ , pouring from him. “What do I do now?” he whispered. “How do I fight this?”

Again, Athos could not help but note the reversal in their roles. Usually he was the one fighting not to drown, the one trying to find a glimmer of light in the swelling darkness, and Tréville the one trying to keep him from going under. And he remembered a moment in that darkness – not so very long ago, really – when he had been reeling from an unimaginable pain and had uttered that same question. _What do I do now?_

That time, though, it had been someone else – a hot-headed Gascon farm boy – who had taken him into his care and offered him an answer.

“You go on,” he said softly, fiercely, winding both his hands around Tréville’s and staring up into the man’s anguished eyes with every bit of love and strength he could muster. “You hold on to what you know is right, you cling to what you know is true, and you lean on those who love you. You let them carry you when you cannot walk, and you let them help you when all you want is to give up. And when a hand comes through the darkness, you grab it and hold on for all you are worth.”

Tréville held onto him and stared down at him, blue eyes still pained but not quite as hopeless. The smallest glimmer of light shone in them, and the man seemed slightly less apt to break wide open. “Took you long enough to figure that out,” he joked weakly. “And you make it sound better than I ever could.” His lips twitched in a strained smirk. “Perhaps the King should name you captain, and I should retire.”

Horror flooded Athos at the very thought. “You are nowhere near ready for retirement,” he breathed fervently. “The King still needs you, though he does not see it. This regiment still needs you, will _always_ need you. And I–” He exhaled unsteadily and licked his lips, staring down at the hands clasped in his. “I still need this too much. I am not certain enough of myself just yet to let go.”

Tréville nodded. “Neither am I.” He nodded toward the cups on the desk. “Let us drink on it and think on it. And maybe at the bottom of one of those bottles we’ll find an answer.”

Athos rose to his feet and went to the desk, refilling the cups with a smile. The answer wasn’t in a bottle, he knew that now. Tréville and the men downstairs had spent the past five years teaching him that.

And he would gladly spend one night and however many bottles it took to remind the man of that truth.

_The End_


End file.
